Mansfield park

EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS

FICTION

MANSFIELD PARK
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON

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THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY
HISTORY ^ CLASSICAL
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
ESSAYS ^ ORATORY
POETRY & DRAMA
BIOGRAPHY
REFERENCE
ROMx^lNCE

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4

First Issue or this Edition
Reprinted

February 1906

April 190G; January 19 10

I lliinois Wesleyan Usivtrsity

INTRODUCTION

Miss Austen alludes in her letter to her brother Henry's
opinion of this book: — "His approbation is hitherto even
equal to my wishes. He says it is different from the other
two^ but does not appear to think it all inferior. He has only
married Mrs. R. He took to Lady B. and Mrs. N. most
kindly, and gives great praise to the drawing of the characters.
He understands them all, likes Fanny, and, I think, foresees
how it will all be. . . . He is going on with Mansfield Park.
He admires H. Crawford; I mean properly, as a clever,
pleasant man.'' Again, three days later: — Henry has tlxis
moment said he likes my M. P. better and better; he is in
the third volume. I believe now he has changed his mind
as to foreseeing the end; he said yesterday, at least, that he
defied anybody to say whether H. C. would be reformed or
would forget Fanny in a fortnight."

On another occasion Miss Austen also writes that one of
her friends had a great idea of being Fanny Price,'' and that
Edmund Bertram, like her other special favourite, Mr.
Kjiightley, was " very far from being what I know English
gentlemen often are." She told her family that the " some-
thing considerable " which Mrs. Norris contributed to
William's outfit was one pound.

R. Brimley Johnson.

vu

/ ...

viii

MAdi&FlELD PA%K

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Pride and Prejudice, written between October, 1796, and August,
1797, first published in 181 3, and a second edition the same vear, third
edition 1817; Sense and Sensibility, written in its present forin between
November, 1797, and 1798, though a portion was extracted from an
earlier manuscript, in the form of letters, entitled ** Elinor and Mari-
anne," first published in 181 1, second edition 1813; Northanger
Abbey, written during 1798, and first published in 1818; Mansfield
Park, written between 181 1 and 18 14, and first published in 1814;
second edition in 1816; Emma, written betv/een 181 1 and 1816, and
first published in 18 16; Persuasion, wTitten between 181 1 and 181 6,
and first published in 1818. In this edition the novels are printed
from the last editions revised by the author, certain obvious misprints,
some of which do not occur in the earlier editions, being corrected.
All such corrections are indicated by the words being enclosed in square
brackets.

MANSFIELD PARK

CH.4PrE\^I

About thirty years ago, Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon
with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to
captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the
county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank
of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences
of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon
exclaimed on the greatness of the match, and her uncle, the
lawyer, himself, allowed her to be at least three thousand
pounds short of any equitable claim to it. She had two
sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their
acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite
as handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their
marrying with almost equal advantage. But there certainly
are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there
are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the end
of half-a-dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached
to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-lav/, with
scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet
worse. Miss Ward's match, indeed, when it came to the
point, was not contemptible ; Sir Thomas being happily able
to give his friend an income in the living of Mansfield ; and
Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal felicity
with very little less than a thousand a-year. But Miss

I Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her
family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without
education, fortune, or connections, did it very thoroughly.
She could hirdly have made a more untoward choice. Sir
Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle as well

\ as pride — from a general wish of doing right, and a desire of

A

2 3<lA3^FIELD PA%K

seeing all that were connected with him in situations of
respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the
advantage of Lady Bertram's sister; but her husband's
profession was such as no interest could reach; and before
he had time to devise any other method of assisting them, an
absolute breach between the sisters had taken place. It was
the natural result of the conduct of each party, and such as
a very imprudent marriage almost always produces. To
save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote
to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady
Bertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a
temper remarkably easy and indolent, would have contented
herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking no
more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity,
which could not be satisfied till she had written a long and
angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct,
and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences. Mrs.
Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer,
which comprehended each sister in its bitterness, and
bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of
Sir Thomas, as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself,
put an end to all intercourse between them for a considerable
period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they
moved so distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever
hearing of each other's existence during the eleven following
years, or, at least, to make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas,
that Mrs. Norris should ever have it in her power to tell them,
as she now and then did, in an angry voice, that Fanny had
got another child. By the end of eleven years, however,
Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or resent-
ment, or to lose one connection that might possibly assist her.
A large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for
active service, but not the less equal to company and good
liquor, and a very small income to supply their wants, made
her eager to regain the friends she had so carelessly sacrificed ;
and she addressed Lady Bertram in a letter which spoke
so much contrition and despondence, such a superfluity of
children, and such a want of almost everything else, as could
not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was pre-
paring for her ninth lying-in ; and after bewailing the circum-

mJ3^FIELD PA%K

stance^ and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the
expected child, she could not conceal how important she felt
they might be to the future maintenance of the eight already
in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten years old, a fine spirited
fellow, who longed to be out in the world; but what could
she do ? Was there any chance of his being hereafter useful
to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property ?
No situation would be beneath him ; or what did Sir Thomas
think of Woolwich ? or how could a boy be sent out to the
East?

The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace
and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and profes-
sions, Lady Bertram dispatched money and baby-linen, and
Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth
a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it.
Mrs. Norris was often observing to the others that she could
not get her poor sister and her family out of her head, and
that, much as they had all done for her, she seemed to be
wanting to do more; and at length she could not but own
it to be her wish, that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from
the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great
number.

" What if they were among them to undertake the care of
her eldest daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to
require more attention than her poor mother could possibly
give? The trouble and expense of it to them would be
nothing, compared with the benevolence of the action."
Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. " I think we
cannot do better," said she; " let us send for the child."

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified
a consent. He debated and hesitated: it was a serious
charge; a girl so brought up must be adequately provided
for, or there would be cruelty instead of kindness in taking
her from her family. He thought of his own four children,
of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc. ; but no sooner had he
deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris
interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or
not.

" My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and
I do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions,

4 MAdi&FIELD PA%K

which, indeed, are quite of a piece with your general conduct;
and I entirely agree with you in the main as to the propriety
of doing everything one could by way of providing for a child
one had in a manner taken into one's own hands; and I am
sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my
mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own,
who should I look to in any little matter I may ever have to
bestow, but the children of my sisters? and I am sure Mr.
Norris is too just — but you know I am a woman of few words
and professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good
deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce her
properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means
of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A
niece of our's. Sir Thomas, I may say, or, at least, of youths,
would not grow up in this neighbourhood without many
advantages. I don't say she would be so handsome as her
cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be intro-
duced into the society of this country under such very
favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would
get her a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your
sons; but do not you know that of all things upon earth thcd
is the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be,
always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally
impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact,
the only sure way of providing against the connection.
Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the
first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be
mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow
up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be
enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in
love with her. But breed her up with them from this time,
and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she
will never be more to either than a sister."

There is a great deal of truth in what you say," replied
Sir Thomas, " and far be it from me to throw any fanciful
impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent
with the relative situations of each. I only meant to obsers' e,
that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make
it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves,
we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to
secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the pro-

vision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should
offer as you are so sanguine in expecting."

" I thoroughly understand you/' cried Mrs. Norris; " you
are everything that is generous and considerate, and I am
sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can
do, as you well know, I am always ready enough to do for
the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel for
this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your
own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much
my own, I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting
her. Is not she a sister's child ? and could I bear to see her
want while I had a bit of bread to give her? My dear Sir
Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart ; and, poor
as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of life
than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it,
I will write to my poor sister to-morrow, and make the pro-
posal; and, as soon as matters are settled, / will engage to
get the child to Mansfield; y^?«^ shall have no trouble about
it. My own trouble, you know, I never regard. I will send
Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed at
her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet
her there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to
town by the coach, under the care of any creditable person
that may chance to be going. I dare say there is always
some reputable tradesman's wife or other going up."

Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin. Sir Thomas no
longer made any objection, and a more respectable, though
less economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted,
everything was considered as settled, and the pleasures of so
benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The division of
gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have been
equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and
consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had
not the least intention of being at any expense whatever in
her maintenance. As far as walking, talking, and contriving
reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody knew
better how to dictate liberality to others; but her love of
money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew
quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her
friends. Having married on a narrower income than she had
been used to look forward to, she had, from the first, fancied

6 3^j:ksfield pa%k

a very strict line of economy necessary ; and what was begun
as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice,
as an object of that needful solicitude which there were no
children to supply. Had there been a family to provide for,
Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having
no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her
frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition
to an income which they had never lived up to. Under this
infatuating principle, counteracted by no real affection for
her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than the
credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity;
though perhaps she might so little know herself, as to walk
home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy
belief of being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in
the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views
were more fully explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's
calm inquiry of " Where shall the child come to first, sister,
to you or to us? " Sir Thomas heard with some surprise,
that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to take
any share in the personal charge of her. He had been con-
sidering her as a particularly welcome addition at the
Parsonage, as a desirable companion to an aunt who had no
children of her own; but he found himself wholly mistaken.
Mrs. Norris w^as sorry to say, that the little girl's staying
with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of the
question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made
it an impossibility; he could no more bear the noise of a
child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well
of his gouty complaints, it would be a different matter; she
should then be glad to take her turn, and think nothing of
the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris took up^
every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a
thing she was sure would distract him. \
Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram,!
with the utmost composure. After a short pause, Sir Thomas
added with dignity, " Yes; let her home be in this house.
We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and she will, at
least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and
of a regular instructress."

" Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, " which are both very im-

portant considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss
Lee^ whether she has three girls to teach^ or only two — there
can be no difference. I only wish I could be more useful;
but you see I do all in my power. I am not one of those
that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her,
however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief
counsellor away for three days. I suppose^ sister, you will
put the child in the little white attic, near the old nurseries.
It will be much the best place for her, so near Miss Lee, and
not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who
could either of them help to dress her, you know, and take
care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair
to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed,
I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere
else."

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

" I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued
Mrs. Norris, " and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune
in having such friends."

" Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas,
" we must not, for our own children's sake, continue her in
the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil.
We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must
prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of
opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but these
are not incurable faults ; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous
for her associates. Had my daughters been younger than
herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a
companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it
is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for ilieniy and everything
to hope for hery from the association."

" That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris, and
what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be
an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins ;
if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good
and clever from iJiemr .

I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady
Bertram: " I have but just got Julia to leave it alone."

There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,"
observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be
made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in

8 JI/IJ3XSFIELD PJ^

the minds of my daughters the consciousness of what thev
are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin ;
and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her
remember that she is not a Miss Bertram. I should wish to
see them very good friends, and would, on no account,
authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards
their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank,
fortune, rights, and expectations, will always be different.
It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our
endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct."

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service ; and though she per-
fectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing,
encouraged him to hope that between them it would be
easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to
her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that
a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys,
but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her
daughter's being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl,
and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off.
She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but
was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for
change of air. Poor woman ! she probably thought change
of air might agree with many of her children.

The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at
Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in
the credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in the im-
portance of leading her in to the others, and recommending
her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though
there might not be much in her first appearance to captivate,
there was, at least, nothing to disgust her relations. She
was small of her age, with no glow of complexion, nor any
other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and.
shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was

not vulgar^ her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her
countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram
received her very kindly ; and Sir Thomas, seeing how much
she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliat-
ing; but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of
deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so
much trouble, or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by
the mere aid of a good-humoured smile, became immediately
the less awful character of the two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their
share in the introduction very well, with much good humour,
and no embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons, who,
at seventeen and sixteen, and tall of their age, had all the
grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two
girls were more at a loss from being younger and in greater
awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with
rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much
used to company and praise, to have anything like natural
shyness; and their confidence increasing from their cousin's
total want of it, they were soon able to take a full survey of
her face and her frock in easy indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-
looking, the daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them
well-grown and forward of their age, which produced as
striking a difference between the cousins in person, as educa-
tion had given to their address ; and no one would have sup-
posed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There
was in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny.
Julia Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older.
The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible.
Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the
home she had left, she knew not how to look up, and could
scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris
had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton
of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree
of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce,
and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by
the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy.
The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no trifling
evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir
Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris

lo mAOiSFIELD PA%K

that she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram
smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself and pug^ and
vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving
her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls
before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her
likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in
bed.

" This is not a very promising beginning/' said Mrs. Norris,
when Fanny had left the room. " After all that I said to
her as we came along, I thought she would have behaved
better; I told her how much might depend upon her acquit-
ting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a little
sulkiness of temper — her poor mother had a good deal: but
we must make allowances for such a child; — and I do not
know that her being sorry to leave her home is really against
her, for, with all its faults, it was her home, and she cannot
as yet understand how much she has changed for the better ;
but then there is moderation in all things.''

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was
inclined to allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mans-
field Park, and the separation from everybody she had been
used to. Her feelings were very acute, and too little under-
stood to be properly attended to. Nobody meant to be
unlcind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to
secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day,
on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and
entertaining their young cousin, produced little union. They
could not but hold her cheap on finding that she had but two
sashes, and had never learned French; and when they per-
ceived her to be little struck with the duet [they] were so
good as to play, they could do no more than make her a
generous present of some of their least valued toys, and
leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever might
be the favourite holiday sport of the moment, making
artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the
school-room, the drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally
forlorn, finding something to fear in every person and place.
She was disheartened by Lady Bertram's silence, awed by
Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's

mADiSFIELD PA%K ii

admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by reflections
on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss
Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants
sneered at her clothes ; and when to these sorrows was added
the idea of the brothers and sisters among whom she had
always been important as playfellow, instructress, and nurse,
the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console
her. The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease ;
whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept
about in constant terror of something or other ; often retreat-
ing towards her own chamber to cry; and the little girl who
was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at night,
as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune,
ended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A
week had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed
by her quiet passive manner, when she was found one morn-
ing by her cousin Edmund, the youngest of the sons, sitting
crying on the attic stairs.

" My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness
of an excellent nature, "what can be the matter?'' And
sitting down by her, was at great pains to overcome her
shame in being so surprised, and persuade her to speak
openly. " Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or
had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia ? or was she puzzled
about anything in her lesson that he could explain ? Did she,
in short, want anything he could possibly get her, or do for
her? " For a long while no answer could be obtained
beyond a " no, no — not at all — no, thank you; " but he still
persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert to her
own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where
the grievance lay. He tried to console her.

You are sorry to leave mamma, my dear little Fanny,"
said he, " which shows you to be a very good girl: but you
must remember that you are with relations and friends, who
all love you, and wish to make you happy. Let us walk out
in the park, and you shall tell me all about your brothers and
sisters."

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these
brothers and sisters generally were, there was one among
them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest. It was

William whom she talked of most^ and wanted most to see.
William^^ the eldest, a year older than herself, her constant
companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of
whom he was the darling) in every distress. " William did
not like she should come away; he had told her he should
miss her very much indeed/' — But William will write to
you, I dare say.'' — Yes, he had promised he would, but he
had told her to write first." — " And when shall you do it? "
She hung her head and answered, hesitatingly, " She did not
know; she had not any paper."

If that will be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with
paper and every other material, and you may write your
letter whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to
write to William.^ "

Yes, very."

Then let it be done now. Come with me into the break-
fast-room, we shall find everything there, and be sure of
having the room to ourselves."

But, cousin, will it go to the post? "

Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other
letters; and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William
nothing."

My uncle! " repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.
Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to
my father to frank."

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no farther
resistance; and they went together into the breakfast-room,
where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with
all the good-will that her brother could himself have felt, and
probably with somewhat more exactness. He continued
with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his
penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted: and
added to these attentions, which she felt very much, a kind-
ness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest.
He wrote with his own hand his love to his cousin William,
and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny's feelings
on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable
of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words
fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin
began to find her an interesting object. He talked to her
more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having

mA3^FIELD PA^

an affectionate heart, and a strong desire of doing right ; and
he could perceive her to be farther entitled to attention^ by
great sensibility of her situation^ and great timidity. He
had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that
she required more positive kindness and with that view en-
deavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all,
and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to
playing with Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt
that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund
gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place
became less strange, and the people less formidable; and if
there were some amongst them whom she could not cease to
fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the
best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and
awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on
the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily
wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear
before her uncle, nor did her Aunt Norris's voice make her
start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally
an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from in-
feriority of age and strength, to be their constant associate,
their pleasures and schemes v/ere sometimes of a nature to
make a third very useful, especially when that third was of
an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own,
when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother
Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that " Fanny was
good-natured enough.''

Edmund was uniformly kind himself ; and she had nothing
worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merri-
ment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair
with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of
spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son,
who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kind-
ness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and
rights : he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed
at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved. Sir Thomas and
Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their bene-
volent plan ; and it was pretty soon decided between them,
that though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposi-

14 mA:HSFIELD PA%K

tion, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean
opinion of her abilities was not confined to them, Fanny
could read, work^ and write, but she had been taught nothing
more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things
with which they had been long familiar, they thought her
prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were
continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-
room. *^ Dear mamma, only think, my cousin cannot put
the map of Europe together — or my cousin cannot tell the
principal rivers in Russia — or she never heard of Asia Minor —
or she does not know the difference between water-colours
and crayons! How strange! Did you ever hear anything
so stupid?

" My dear," their considerate aunt would reply, " it is very
bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and
quick at learning as yourself."

But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant ! Do you know,
we asked her last night, which way she would go to get to
Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight.
She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it
the Island, as if there were no other island in the world. I am
sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not
known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot
remember the time when I did not know a great deal that
she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt,
since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings
of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of
the principal events of their reigns! "

" Yes," added the other; and of the Roman emperors as
low as Severus ; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology,
and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished
philosophers."

" Very true, indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with
wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none
at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well
as in everything else, and therefore you must make allow-
ance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember
that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you
should always be modest; for, much as you know already,
there is a great deal more for you to learn."

" Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must

5\4A5^FIELD PA%K 15

tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do
you know^ she says she does not want to learn either music
or drawing."

"To be sure^ my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and
shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things
considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it
should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa
and mamma are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not
at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you
are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there
should be a difference."

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to
form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that,
with all their promising talents and early information, they
should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements
of self-knowledge, generosity, and humility. In everything \
but disposition, they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas /
did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly
anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the
reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits
before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not N.
the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. /
She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely
dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needle-work, of
little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her
children, but very indulgent to the latter, when it did not put
herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by
Sir Thomas and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she
possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she
would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were
under the care of a governess, with proper masters, and could
want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at learning,

she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people
were stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not
know what else was to be done; and, except her being so
dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing,
and always found her very handy, and quick in carrying
messages, and fetching what she wanted."

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was
fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour

1 6 3\4A3^FIELD PA^

much of her attachment to her former home, grew up there
not unhappily among her cousins. There was no positive
ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was often
mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of
her own claims to feel injured by it.

From about the time of her entering the family, Lady
Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health, and a great
deal of indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had
been used to occupy every spring, and remained wholly in
the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parlia-
ment, with whatever increase or dimxinution of comfort might
arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss
Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their
duets, and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw
them becoming in person, manner, and accomplishments,
everything that could satisfy his anxiety. His eldest son
was careless and extravagant, and had already given him
much uneasiness; but his other children promised him
nothing but good. His daughters, he felt, while they
retained the name of Bertram, must be giving it nevv grace,
and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend its respectable
alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good
sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility,
honour, and happiness to himself and all his connections.
He was to be a clergyman.

Arnid the cares and the complacency which his own
children suggested, Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he
could for the children of Mrs. Price: he assisted her liberally
in the education and disposal of her sons as they became old
enough for a determinate pursuit : and Fanny, though almost
totally separated from her family, was sensible of the truest
satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of
anything at all promising in their situation or conduct.
Once, and once only in the course of many years, had she
the happiness of being with William. Of the rest she saw
nothing; nobody seemed to think of her ever going amongst
them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to want
her ; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be
a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in North-
amptonshire, before he went to sea. Their eager affection in
meeting, their exquisite delight in being together, their hours

mJOiSFIELD FA%K

17

of happy mirth, and moments of serious conference, may be
imagined; as well as the sanguine views and spirits of the
boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he left
her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays,
when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin
Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what
William was to do, and be hereafter, in consequence of his
profession, as made her gradually admit that the separation
might have some use. Edmund's friendship never failed
her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kind
disposition, and only afforded more frequent opportunities of
proving them. Without any display of doing more than the
rest, or any fear of doing too much, he was always true to
her interests, and considerate of her feelings, trying to make
her good qualities understood, and to conquer the diffidence
which prevented their being m.ore apparent; giving her
advice, consolation, and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support
could not bring her forward; but his attentions were other-
wise of the highest importance in assisting the improvement
of her mind, and extending its pleasures. He knew her to be
clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense,
and a fondness for reading, which, properly directed, must be
an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French, and
heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recom-
mended the books which charmed her leisure hours, he
encouraged her taste, and corrected her judgment : he made
reading useful by talking to her of what she read, and
heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return for
such services, she loved him better than anybody in the
world except William: her heart was divided between the
two.

1 8 mA:KSFIELD PA%K

CH^PTE^ III

The first event of any importance in the family was the
death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was about
fifteen, and necessarily introduced alterations and novelties.
Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage, removed first to the
Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir Thomas's in the
village, and consoled herself for the loss of her husband by
considering that she could do very well without him; and
for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of
stricter economy.

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle
died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given to
some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But
Tom's extravagance had, previous to that event, been so
great, as to render a different disposal of the next presenta-
tion necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay
for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family
living actually held for Edmund: but though this circum-
stance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir
Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of
injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with
the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better
effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do.

I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified
manner; I blush for the expedient which I am driven on,
and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occa-
sion. You have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty
years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which
ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in
your's (I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but
it must not be forgotten, that no benefit of that sort would
have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothing
can, in fact, be an equivalent for the certain advantage which
he is now obliged to forego through the urgency of your
debts."

Tom Hstened with some shame and some sorrow; but
escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful

mAHS FIELD PJ%K

19

selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much
in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had
made a most tiresome piece of work of it ; and thirdly, that
the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all
probability, die very soon.

On Mr. Norris's death, the presentation became the right
of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield ;
and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed
likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations. But no,
he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied
well with good things, would soon pop of."

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no
children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the
usual fair report of being very respectable, agreeable people.

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his
sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in
Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age,
seeming not merely to do away any former objection to their
living together, but even to give it the most decided eligi-
bility ; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair
than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India
estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became
not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of
her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In
the fulness of his belief that such a thing must be, he men-
tioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the
subject's occurring to her again, happening to be when Fanny
was present, she calmly observed to her, So, Fanny, you
are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall
you like it? "

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her
aunt's words, Going to leave you? "

Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You
have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to
take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and
tack on my patterns all the same."

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been
unexpected. She had never received kindness from her
aunt Norris, and could not love her.

I shall be very sorry to go away/' said she, with a
faltering voice.

20

" Yes, I dare say you will; that's natural enough. I sup-
pose you have had as little to vex you since you came into
this house as any creature in the world/*

I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt/' said Fanny, modestly.

No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a
very good girl."

And am I never to live here again? ''

Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home.
It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in
one house or the other."

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart: she
could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not
think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction.
As soon as she met with Edmund, she told him her distress.

" Cousin," said she, something is going to happen which
I do not like at all ; and though you have often persuaded me
into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will
not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with
my aunt Norris."

Indeed!"

" Yes: my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite
settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White
House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there."

Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you,
I should call it an excellent one."

Oh, cousin!"

' It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting
like a sensible w^oman in wishing for you. She is choosing a
friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am
glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what
you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very
much, Fanny ? "

Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and
everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how
uncomfortable I feel with her."

I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but
it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew
how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age
to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already;
and when you are her only companion, you must be important
to her."

3\4A:KSFIELD pa%k

'* I can never be important to any one."
" What is to prevent you? "
Everything. My situation, my foolishness, and av/k-
wardness.''

As to your foohshness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny,
believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using
the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world
why you should not be important where you are known.
You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you
have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness
without wishing to return it. I do not know any better
qualifications for a friend and companion."

You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise;
how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well
of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember
your goodness to the last moment of my life."

Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at
such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you
were going two hundred miles ofiE instead of only across the
park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever.
The two families will be meeting every day in the year. Th
only difference will be, that living with your aunt, you will
necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. Here,
there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with
her you will be forced to speak for yourself."

Oh! do not say so."

I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is
much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of
you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody
she really interests herself about, and she wull force you to
do justice to your natural powers."

Fanny sighed, and said, I cannot see things as you do;
but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and
I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to
what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for
me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to
anybody. Here, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the
place so well."

The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you
quit the house. You will have as free a command of the
park and gardens as ever. Even your constant little heart

22 3llA3iSFIELD PA%K

need not take fright at such a nominal change. You will
have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose
from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride."

"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin,
when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what
terrors it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good
(oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips if
horses were talked of), and then think of the kind pains you
took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince
me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right
you proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always
prophesy as well."

And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs.
Norris will be as good for your mind as riding has been for
your health, and as much for your ultimate happiness, too."

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate
service it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared,
for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her.
It had never occurred to her, on the present occasion, but as
a thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent its being
expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which
could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield
parish, the White House being only just large enough to
receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room for
a friend, of which she made a very particular point. The
spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted,
but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend
was now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, how-
ever, could save her from being suspected of something
better; or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of a
spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really
intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter
to a certainty, by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris —

I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer,
when Fanny goes to live with you."

Mrs. Norris almost started. Live with me, dear Lady
Bertram ! what do you mean? "

Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled
it with Sir Thomas."

Me ! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir
Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with me ! the last thing

mAOKSFIELD PA%K 23

in the world for me to think of^ or for anybody to wish that
really knows us both. Good heaven ! what could I do with
Fanny ? Me ! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for any-
thing, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a
girl at her time of life ? A girl of fifteen ! the very age of
all others to need most attention and care, and put the
cheerfullest spirits to the test ! Sure Sir Thomas could not
seriously expect such a thing ! Sir Thomas is too much my
friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would pro-
pose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?
" Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best/"^
" But what did he say? He could not say he wished me
to take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not wish me
to do it.''

No ; he only said he thought it very likely ; and I thought
so too. We both thought it would be a comfort to you.
But if you do not like it, there is no more to be said. She is
no incumbrance here.''

Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can
she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate
widow, deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in
attending and nursing him, my spirits still worse, all my
peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to support
me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so
as not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed — what
possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge upon
me as Fanny ? If I could wish it for my own sake, I would
not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She is in good
hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my
sorrows and difficulties as I can."

" Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone? "

"Dear Lady Bertram, what am I fit for but solitude?
Now and then I shall hope to have a friend in my little
cottage (I shall always have a bed for a friend) ; but the most
part of my future days will be spent in utter seclusion. If
I can but make both ends meet, that's all I ask for."

" I hope, sister, things are not so very bad with you neither,
considering Sir Thomas says you will have six hundred
a-year."

" Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live
as I have done, but I must retrench where I can, and learn

24

mJDiSFIELD PJ'l^

to be a better manager. I have been a liberal housekeeper
enough, but I shall not be ashamed to practise economy now.
My situation is as much altered as my income. A great
many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman
of the parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is
unknown how much was consumed in our kitchen by odd
comers and goers. At the White House, matters must be
better looked after. I must live within my income, or I shall
be miserable ; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to
be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the
year."

I dare say you will. You always do, don't you? "

" My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that
come after me. It is for your children's good that I wish to
be richer. I have nobody else to care for; but I should be
very glad to think I could leave a little trifle among them
worth their having."

You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about
them. They are sure of being well provided for. Sir
Thomas will take care of that."

Why, you know. Sir Thomas's means will be rather
straitened if the Antigua estate is to make such poor returns."

'^Oh! that will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been
writing about it, I know."

Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, moving to go,

I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use to your
family : and so, if Sir Thomas should ever speak again about
my taking Fanny, you will be able to say that my health and
spirits put it quite out of the question ; besides that, I really
should not have a bed to give her, for I must keep a spare
room for a friend."

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her
husband to convince him how much he had mistaken his
sister-in-law's views; and she was from that moment per-
fectly safe from all expectation, or the slightest allusion to it
from him. He could not but wonder at her refusing to do
anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to adopt;
but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady
Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was
designed for their family, he soon grew reconciled to a dis-
tinction which, at the same time that it was advantageous

FROPEBn Of umm

and complimentary to them, would enable him better to
provide for Fanny himself.

Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of
a removal: and her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the
discovery, conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his
disappointment in what he had expected to be so essentially
serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the White
House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events
over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.

The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable,
gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaint-
ance. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them
out. The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have
a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of con-
triving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high
wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever
seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any
temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and
eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. " Nobody
loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; nobody
more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had
never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne
a bad character in her time, but this was a way of going on
that she could not understand. A fine lady in a country
parsonage was quite out of place. Her store-room, she
thought, might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go
into. Enquire where she would, she could not find out that
Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.'^

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort
of invective. She could not enter into the wrongs of an
economist, but she felt all the injuries of beauty in Mrs.
Grant's being so well settled in life without being handsome,
and expressed her astonishment on that point almost as
often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the
other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year, before
another event arose of such importance in the family, as
might fairly claim some place in the thoughts and conversa-
tion of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it expedient to go to
Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his affairs,
and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching

26 31ADiSFIELD PJ1{K

him from some bad connections at home. They left England
with the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the
hope of its utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the
effort of quitting the rest of his family, and of leaving his
daughters to the direction of others at their present most
interesting time of life. He could not think Lady Bertram
quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather, to per-
form what should have been her own ; but, in Mrs. Norris's
watchful attention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had suffi-
cient confidence to make him go without fears for their
conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave
her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety,
or solicitude for his comfort, being one of those persons who
think nothing can be dangerous or difficult, or fatiguing, to
anybody but themselves.

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion ;
not for their sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father
was no object of love to them; he had never seemed the
friend of their pleasures, and his absence was unhappily most
welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; and
without aiming at one gratification that would probably have
been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves imme-
diately at their own disposal, and to have every indulgence
within their reach. Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of
it, were quite equal to her cousins' ; but a more tender nature
suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really
grieved because she could not grieve. " Sir Thomas, who
had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was
gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go
without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility." He had
said to her, moreover, on the very last morning, that he hoped
she might see William again in the course of the ensuing
winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mans-
field, as soon as the squadron to w^hich he belonged should
be known to be in England. This was so thoughtful and
kind! " and would he only have smiled upon her, and called
her " my dear Fanny," while he said it, every former frown
or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had
ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by

mAO^FIELD PA%K

adding, If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may
be able to convince him that the many years which have
passed since you parted have not been spent on your side
entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find
his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister
at ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when her
uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red
eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.

CH^PTE\ IV

Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home,
that he could be only nominally missed ; and Lady Bertram
was soon astonished to find how very well they did even
without his father, how well Edmund could supply his place
in carving, talking to the steward, writing to the attorney,
settling with the servants, and equally saving her from all
possible fatigue or exertion in every particular, but that of
directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at
Antigua, after a favourable voyage, was received; though
not before Mrs. Norris had been indulging in very dreadful
fears, and trying to make Edmund participate them whenever
she could get him alone; and as she depended on being the
first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe, she
had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the
others, when Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being
alive and well, made it necessary to lay by her agitation and
affectionate preparatory speeches for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being called for ;
the accounts continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in
promoting gaieties for her nieces, assisting their toilets, dis-
playing their accomplishments, and looking about for their
future husbands, had so much to do, as in addition to all her
own household cares, some interference in those of her sister,
and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very
little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.

28 3Ij:ksfield pj^

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the
belles of the neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty
and brilliant acquirements a manner naturally easy, and
carefully formed to general civility and obligingness, they
possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their vanity
was in such good order, that they seemed to be quite free
from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the praises
attending such behaviour, secured and brought round by
their aunt, served to strengthen them in believing they had
no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters.
She was too indolent even to accept a mother's gratification
in witnessing their success and enjoyment at the expense of
any personal trouble, and the charge was made over to her
sister, who desired nothing better than a post of such honour-
able representation, and very thoroughly relished the means
it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses
to hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but
she enjoyed being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion,
when they called away the rest of the family; and, as Miss
Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally became everything to
Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party. She
talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tran-
quillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a iete-d-
tete from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome
to a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or
embarrassments. As to her cousins' gaieties, she loved to
hear an account of them, especially of the balls, and whom
Edmund had danced with ; but thought too lowly of her own
situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the same,
and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern
in them. Upon the whole, it v/as a comfortable winter to
her; for though it brought no William to England, the
never-failing hope of his arrival was worth much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend the
old grey pony ; and for some time she was in danger of feeling
the loss in her health as well as in her affections; for in spite
of the acknowledged importance of her riding on horseback,
no measures were taken for mounting her again, " because,"
as it was observed by her aunts, she might ride one of her

mAO^SFIELD PA%K

29

cousins' horses at any time when they did not want them/'
and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every
fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners
to the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course,
never came. They took their cheerful rides in the fine morn-
ings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at home the
whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at
the instigation of the other; Lady Bertram holding exercise
to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to
herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day, thinking
everybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at
this time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied.
When he returned, to understand how [Fanny] was situated,
and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one
thing to be done; and that " Fanny must have a horse,"
was the resolute declaration with which he opposed whatever
could be urged by the supineness of his mother, or the
economy of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant. Mrs.
Norris could not help thinking that some steady old thing
might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park,
that would do vastly well; or, that one might be borrowed
of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and
then lend them the pony he sent to the post. She could not
but consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper,
that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own, in
the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas never
intended it: and she must say, that to be making such a
purchase in his absence, and adding to the great expenses of
his stable, at a time when a large part of his income was
unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. Fanny must
have a horse," was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Norris could
not see it in the same light. Lady Bertram did : she entirely
agreed with her son as to the necessity of it, and as to its
being considered necessary by his father; she only pleaded
against there being any hurry ; she only wanted him to wait
till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might settle
it all himself. He would be at home in September, and
where would be the harm of only waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt
than with his mother, as evincing least regard for her niece,
he could not help paying more attention to what she said,

30

and at length determined on a method of proceeding which
would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he had done
too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the
immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear she
should be without. He had three horses of his own, but not
one that w^ould carry a woman. Two of them were hunters ;
the third, a useful road-horse: this third he resolved to
exchange for one that his cousin might ride ; he knew where
such a one was to be met with; and having once made up
his mind, the whole business was soon completed. The new
mare proved a treasure; with a very little trouble, she
became exactly calculated for the purpose, and Fanny was
then put in almost full possession of her. She had not sup-
posed before, that anything could ever suit her like the old
grey pony ; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond
any former pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever
receiving in the consideration of that kindness from which
her pleasure sprung, was beyond all her words to express.
She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good
' and great, as possessing worth, which no one but herself couid
ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from her,
as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments
towards him were compounded of all that was respectful,
grateful, confiding, and tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property
of Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's
use; and had Lady Bertram ever thought about her ow^n
objection again, he might have been excused in her eyes for
not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in September, for when
September came, Sir Thomas was still abroad, and without
any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable
circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was
beginning to turn all his thoughts towards England ; and the
very great uncertainty in which everything was then involved
determined him on sending home his son, and waiting the final
arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely, bringing an
excellent account of his father's health; but to very little
purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's
sending away his son seemed to her so like a parent's care,
under the influence of a foreboding of evil to himself, that she
could not help feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the

31A3iSFIELD PA%K 31

long evenings of autumn came on^ was so terribly haunted by
these ideas^ in the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to be
obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.
The return of winter engagements, however, was not without
its effects; and in the course of their progress, her mind
became so pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes
of her eldest niece, as tolerably to quiet her nerves. " If
poor Sir Thomas were fated never to return, it would be
peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well married,"
she very often thought; always when they were in the com-
pany of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction
of a young man who had recently succeeded to one of the
largest estates and finest places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty
of Miss Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied
himself in love. He was a heavy young man, with not more
than common sense; but as there was nothing disagreeable
in his figure or address, the young lady was well pleased with
her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria
Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty, and as a
marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment
of a larger income than her father's, as well as ensure her
the house in town, which was now a prime object, it became,
by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident duty to
marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most
zealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and
contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party ;
and, among other means, by seeking an intimacy with the
gentleman's mother, who at present lived with him, and to
whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten miles
of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long
before a good understanding took place between this lady
and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very
desirous that her son should marry, and declared that of all
the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by
her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best adapted
to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,
and admired the nice discernment of character which c«s)uld
so well distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and
delight of them all — perfectly faultless— an angel; and, of
course, so surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her

\

32

choice: but yet, as far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself to
decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared
precisely the young man to deserve and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls,
the young people justified these opinions, and an engagement,
with a due reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered
into, much to the satisfaction of their respective families,
and of the general lookers-on of the neighbourhood, who had,
for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr. Rushworth's
marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be
received ; but, in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his
most cordial pleasure in the connection, the intercourse of
the two families was carried on without restraint, and no
other attempt made at secrecy, than Mrs. Norris's talking of
it everyv/here as a matter not to be talked of at present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a
fault in the business; but no representation of his aunt's
could induce him to find Mr. Rushworth a desirable com-
panion. He could allow his sister to be the best judge of her
own happiness, but he was not pleased that her happiness
should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from
often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company — " If
this man had not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very
stupid fellow."

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of
an alliance so unquestionably advantageous, and of which
he heard nothing but the perfectly good and agreeable. It
was a connection exactly of the right sort — in the same county,
and the same interest — and his most hearty concurrence was
conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that the
marriage should not take place before his return, which he
was again looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April,
and had strong hopes of settling everything to his entire
satisfaction, and leaving Antigua before the end of the
summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and
Fanny had just reached her eighteenth year, w^hen the society
of the village received an addition in the brother and sister
of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford, the cliildren of her
mother by a second marriage. They were young people of

fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the daughter
twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been
always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had
been soon followed by the death of their common parent,
which left them to the care of a brother of their father, of
whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely seen them
since. In their uncle's house they had found a kind home.
Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were
no farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their
favourite, to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the
two. The Admiral delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford
doated on the girl; and it was the lady's death which now
obliged her protegee, after some months' further trial at her
uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a
man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his
niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this
Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister's proposal of coming
to her, a measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be
expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time
run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the
country without a family of children — having more than filled
her favourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made
a choice collection of plants and poultry — was very much in
want of some variety at home^ The arrival, therefore, of a
sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain
with her as long as she remained single, was highly agreeable ;
and her chief anxiety was, lest Mansfield should not satisfy
the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to
London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar appre-
hensions, though they arose principally from doubts of her
sister's style of living and tone of society ; and it was not till
after she had tried in vain to persuade her brother to settle
with her at his own country-house, that she could resolve to
hazard herself among her other relations. To anything like
a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry
Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike; he could not
accommodate his sister in an article of such importance ; but
he escorted her, with the utmost kindness, into Northamp-
tonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch her away again,

B

3dAD<^FIELD PA^

at half an hour's notice^ whenever she were weary of the
place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss
Crawford found a sister without preciseness or rusticity — a
sister's husband who looked the gentleman, and a house
commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant received in
those whom she hoped to love better than ever, a young
man and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary
Crawford was remarkably pretty ; Henry, though not hand-
some, had air and countenance; the manners of both were
lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them
credit for everything else. She was delighted with each, but
Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able to
glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power
of being proud of her sister's. She had not waited her arrival
to look out for a suitable match for her; she had fixed on
Tom Bertram ; the eldest son of a baronet was not too good
for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance
and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and
being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not
been three hours in the house before she told her what she
had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence
so very near them, and not at all displeased either at her
sister's early care, or the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony
was her object, provided she could marry well: and having
seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that objection could no
more be made to his person than to his situation in life.
While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget
to think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to
Henry.

" And now," added Mrs. Grant, " I have thought of some-
thing to make it complete. I should dearly love to settle
you both in this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall
marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice, handsome, good-
humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very happy."

Henry bowed and thanked her.

" My dear sister," said Mary, " if you can persuade him
into anything of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight
to me to find myself allied to anybody so clever, and I shall
only regret that you have not half-a-dozen daughters to dis-

mAHSFIELD PA%K 35

pose of. If you can persuade Henry to marry, you must
have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English
abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very
particular friends who have been all dying for him in their
turn; and the pains which they, their mothers (very clever
women), as well as my dear aunt and myself, have taken to
reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is inconceivable!
He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If your
Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let
them avoid Henry."

" My dear brother, I will not believe this of you."

" No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder
than Mary. You will allow for the doubts of youth and
inexperience. I am of a cautious temper, and unwilling to
risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think more
highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the
blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet
lines of the poet * Heaven's last best gift.' "

" There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word,
and only look at his smile. I assure you he is very detestable ;
the Admiral's lessons have quite spoiled him."

" I pay very little regard," said Mrs. Grant, " to what any
young person says on the subject of marriage. If they
profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they
have not yet seen the right person."

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on
feeling no disinclination to the state herself.

" Oh yes 1 I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have
everybody marry if they can do it properly: I do not like
to have people throw themselves av/ay: but everybody
should marry as soon as they can do it to advantage."

The young people were pleased with each other from the
first. On each side there was much to attract, and their
acquaintance soon promised as early an intimacy as good
manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's beauty did her no

36 {MAO^FIELD PA%K

disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome
themselves to disUke any woman for being so too^ and were
almost as much charmed as their brothers with her lively
dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general prettiness.
Had she been tall, full formed, and fair, it might have been
more of a trial: but as it was, there could be no comparison;
and she was most allowably a sweet pretty girl, while they
were the finest young women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome; no, when they first saw
him he was absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he
was the gentleman, with a pleasing address. The second
meeting proved him not so very plain; he was plain, to be
sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his teeth
were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot
he was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in
company with him at the Parsonage, he was no longer
allowed to be called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the
most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known, and
they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram's
engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of

Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen in love with.

Maria's notions on the subject were more confused and
indistinct. She did not want to see or understand. " There
could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man — everybody
knew her situation — Mr. Crawford must take care of him-
self." Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the
Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be
pleased; and he began with no object but of making them
like him. He did not want them to die of love; but with
sense and temper which ought to have made him judge and
feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points.

" I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,'' said he,
as he returned from attending them to their carriage after
the said dinner visit; they are very elegant, agreeable
girls."

So they are, indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say
it. But you like Julia best."

Oh yes! I like Julia best."
"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general
thought the handsomest."

aware; and before he had been at

3^J3^FIELD PA%K 37

" So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every
feature^ and I prefer her countenance; but I Uke Julia best;
Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest^ and I have found
her the most agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best,
because you order me."

I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you will like
her best at last."

" Do not I tell you that I like her best at -first ? "

" And besides. Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that,
my dear brother. Her choice is made."

Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman
is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied
with herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may
exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is
safe with a lady engaged; no harm can be done."

" Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of
young man, and it is a great match for her."

" But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him;
that is your opinion of your intimate friend. / do not sub-
scribe to it. I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached
to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in her eyes, when he was
mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she
would ever give her hand without her heart."
Mary, how shall we manage him? "

" We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does
no good. He will be taken in at last."

But I would not have him taken in ; I would not have
him duped; I would have it all fair and honourable."

" Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It
will do just as well. Everybody is taken in at some period
or other."

" Not always in marriage, dear Mary."

" In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of
the present company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs.
Grant, there is not one in a hundred of either sex who is not
taken in when they marry. Look where I will, I see that it
is so; and I feel that it must be so, when I consider that it
is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect most
from others, and are least honest themselves."

" Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in
Hill Street."

38 ^A3^FIELD PA%K

" My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state;
but, however, speaking from my own observation, it is a
manoeuvring business. I know so many who have married
in the full expectation and confidence of some one particular
advantage in the connection, or accomplishment, or good
quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely
deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse.
What is this but a take in?

" My dear child, there must be a little imagination here.
I beg your pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend
upon it, you see but half. You see the evil, but you do not
see the consolation. There will be little rubs and disappoint-
ments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much;
but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature
turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make
a second better; we find comfort somewhere — and those evil-
minded observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little,
are more taken in and deceived than the parties themselves.''

" Well done, sister ! I honour your esprit du corps. When
I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself ; and I wish
my friends in general would be so too. It would save me
many a heart-ache."

" You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure
you both. Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any
taking in. Stay with us, and we will cure you."

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very
willing to stay. Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a
present home, and Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit.
He had come, intending to spend only a few days with them ;
but Mansfield promised well, and there was nothing to call
him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both
with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to
have it so : a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford
is always pleasant society to an indolent, stay-at-home man;
and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was an excuse for drinking
claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more
rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford's habits made
her likely to feel. She acknowledged, however, that the Mr.
Bertrams were very fine young men, that two such young men
were not often seen together even in London, and that their

mA3<^FIELD PA%K 39

manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good.
He had been much in London, and had more liveliness and
gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred;
and, indeed, his being the eldest was another strong claim.
She had felt an early presentiment that she should like the
eldest best. She knew it was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed,
at any rate; he was the sort of young man to be generally
liked, his agreeableness was of the kind to be oftener found
agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp, for he
had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance, and
a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and
a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon
felt that he and his situation might do. She looked about
her with due consideration, and found almost everything in
his favour, a park, a real park, five miles round, a spacious
modern-built house, so well placed and well screened as to
deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentleman's
seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely new
furnished — pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable
man himself — with the advantage of being tied up from much
gaming at present, by a promise to his father, and of being
Sir Thomas hereafter. It might do very well ; she believed
she should accept him ; and she began accordingly to interest
herself a little about the horse which he had to run at the
B races.

These races were to call him away not long after their
acquaintance began ; and as it appeared that the family did
not, from his usual goings on, expect him back again for many
weeks, it would bring his passion to an early proof. Much
was said on his side to induce her to attend the races, and
schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the
eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was she doing and thinking all this while ?
and what was her opinion of the new-comers? Few young
ladies of eighteen could be less called on to speak their
opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way, very little attended to,
she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Crawford's beauty ;
but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain,
in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the
contrary, she never mentioned him. The notice which she

40 3IJ3^FIELD PA%K.

excited herself, was to this effect. I begin now to under-
stand you all, except Miss Price/' said Miss Crawford, as she
was walking with the Mr. Bertrams. Pray, is she out, or is
she not.^* I am puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage, with
the rest of you, which seemed like being out ; and yet she
says so little, that I can hardly suppose she isT

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, " I
believe I know what you mean, but I will not undertake to
answer the question. My cousin is grown up. She has the
age and sense of a woman, but the outs and not outs are
beyond me."

And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascer-
tained. The distinction is so broad. Manners as well as
appearance are, generally speaking, so totally different.
Till now, I could not have supposed it possible to be mistaken
as to a girl's being out or not. A girl not out, has always the
jame sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks very
demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so,
I assure you ; and except that it is sometimes carried a little

(too far, it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and
modest. The most objectionable part is, that the alteration
of manners on being introduced into company is frequently
too sudden. They sometimes pass in such very little time
from reserve to quite the opposite — to confidence! That is
the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to
see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to every-
thing— and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to
speak the year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say you have
sometimes met with such changes."

" I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you
are at. You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."

" No, indeed. Miss Anderson ! I do not know who or
what you mean. I am quite in the dark. But I will quiz
you with a great deal of pleasure, if you will tell me what
about."

Ah! you carry it o£E very well, but I cannot be quite so
far imposed on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your
eye, in describing an altered young lady. You paint too
accurately for mistake. It was exactly so. The Andersons
of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other day,
you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles

^J:HS FIELD PA\K

41

Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has
represented it. When Anderson first introduced me to his
family^ about two years ago^ his sister was not out, and I
could not get her to speak to me. I sat there an hour one
morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a little girl
or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,
and the mother in and out every moment with letters of
business, and I could hardly get a word or a look from the
young lady — nothing like a civil answer — she screwed up her
mouth, and turned from me with such an air ! I did not see
her again for a twelvemonth. She was then out, I met her
at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up
to me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of
countenance, and talked and laughed till I did not know
which way to look. I felt that I must be the jest of the room
at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has heard the
story."

" And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I
dare say, than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common
a fault. Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right
way of managing their daughters. I do not know where the
error lies. I do not pretend to set people right, but I do see
that they are often wrong."

Those who are showing the world what female manners
should he^^ said Mr. Bertram gallantly, are doing a great
deal to set them right."

" The error is plain enough," said the less courteous
Edmund; ^' such girls are ill brought up. They are given
wrong notions from the beginning. They are always acting
upon motives of vanity, and there is no more real modesty
in their behaviour hejore they appear in public than after-
wards."

" I do not know," replied Miss Crawford, hesitatingly.
" Yes, I cannot agree with you there. It is certainly the
modestest part of the business. It is much worse to have
girls not out, give themselves the same airs and take the same
liberties as if they were, which I have seen done. That is
worse than anything — quite disgusting 1 "

Yes, that is very inconvenient, indeed," said Mr. Bertram.

It leads one astray; one does not know what to do. The
close bonnet and demure air you describe so well (and nothing

42 mAD<^FIELD PA^

was ever juster), tell one what is expected; but I got into a
dreadful scrape last year from the want of them. I went
down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September,
just after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd
—you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund — his father,
and mother, and sisters, were there, all new to me. When
we reached Albion Place, they were out; we went after them,
and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds,
with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form ;
and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself
to one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home,
and made myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady,
perfectly easy in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen.
I had not a suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong.
They looked just the same: both well dressed, with veils and
parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had
been giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not
out, and had most excessively offended the eldest. Miss
Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the next six
months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me."

''That was bad, indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd! Though I
have no younger sister, I feel for her. To be neglected
before one's time must be very vexatious ; but it was entirely
the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should have been with her
governess. Such half and half doings never prosper. But
now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to
balls? Does she dine out everywhere, as well as at my
sister's? "

No," replied Edmund; I do not think she has ever
been to a ball. My mother seldom goes into company her-
self, and dines nowhere but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny
stays at home with herj^

Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out."

CH^PTE'F^ VI

Mr. Bertram set off for , and Miss Crawford was pre-
pared to find a great chasm in their society, and to miss him
decidedly in the meetings which were now becoming almost

mAHSFIELD PA%K

daily between the families ; and on their all dining together
-at the Park soon after his going, she retook her chosen place
near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a mort
melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would
be a very flat business, she was sure. In comparison with
his brother, Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup
would be sent round in a most spiritless manner, wine drank
without any smiles or agreeable trifling, and the venison cut
up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former
haunch, or a single entertaining story, about my friend such
a one." She must try to find amusement in what was passing
at the upper end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rush-
worth, who was now making his appearance at Mansfield for
the first time since the Crawfords' arrival. He had been
visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that friend
having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,
Mr. Rushworth v/as returned with his head full of the subject,
and very eager to be improving his own place in the same
way; and though not saying much to the purpose, could
talk of nothing else. The subject had been already handled
in the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour.
Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his chief
aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious
superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of
Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a
feeling of complacency, which prevented her from being very
ungracious.

" I wish you could see Compton," said he, it is the most
complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life.
I told Smith I did not know where I was. The approach,
now, is one of the finest things in the country: you see the
house in the most surprising manner. I declare, when I got
back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison — quite
a dismal old prison.''

Oh, for shame! " cried Mrs. Norris. " A prison, indeed?
Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."

It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything. I
never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my
life: and it is so forlorn, that I do not know what can be
done with it."

" No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at

44

mA3^FIELD PA%K

present/' said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; but
depend upon it, Sotherton will have every improvement in
' ^j.me which his heart can desire."

" I must try to do something with it/' said Mr. Rushworth,
but I do not know what. I hope I shall have some good
friend to help me."

" Your best friend upon such an occasion/' said Miss
Bertram calmly, would be Mr. Repton, I imagine."

That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so v/ell
by Smithy! think I had better have him at once. His terms
are five guineas a day."

Well, and if they were /ew/' cried Mrs. Norris, I am
sure you need not regard it. The expense need not be any
impediment. If I were you, I should not think of the ex-
pense. I would have everything done in the best style, and
made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton Court
deserves everything that taste and money can do. You
have space to work upon there, and grounds that will well
reward you. For my own part, if I had anything within the
fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I should be always plant-
ing and improving, for, naturally, I am excessively fond of it.
It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where
I am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a
burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take a prodi-
gious delight in improving and planting. We did a vast deal
in that way at the Parsonage : we made it quite a different
place from what it was when we first had it. You young
ones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear
Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements
we made : and a great deal more would have been done, but
for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health. He could hardly
ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and that dis-
heartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and
I used to talk of. If it had not been for that, we should have
carried on the garden wall, and made the plantation to shut
out the church-yard, just as Dr. Grant has done. We were
always doing something as it was. It was only the spring
twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death, that we put in the
apricot against the stable wall, which is now growTi such a
noble tree, and getting to such perfection, sir," addressing
herself then to Dr. Grant.

mAOiSFIELD PA'RK 45

" The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam/' replied
Dr. Grant. The soil is good; and I never pass it without
regretting that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble
of gathering.

Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and
it cost us — that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I
saw the bill — and I know it cost seven shillings, and was
charged as a Moor Park."

You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant:
these potatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park
apricot as the fruit from that tree. It is an insipid fruit at
the best; but a good apricot is eatable, which none from my
garden are."

The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to
whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris, " that Dr. Grant
hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is : he is
scarcely ever indulged with one, for it is so valuable a fruit;
with a little assistance, and ours is such a remarkably large,
fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves, my cook
contrives to get them all."

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and,
for a little while, other subjects took place of the improve-
ments of Sotherton. Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom
good friends ; their acquaintance had begun in dilapidations,
and their habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption, Mr. Rushworth began again.

Smith's place is the admiration of all the country; and it
was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think
I shall have Repton."

Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, " if I were you, I
would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get out
into a shrubbery in fine weather."

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his ac-
quiescence, and tried to make out something complimentary ;
but, between his submission to lieY taste, and his having
always intended the same himself, with superadded objects
of professing attention to the comfort of ladies in general,
and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was
anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to
put an end to his speech by a proposal of wine. Mr. Rush-
worth, however, though not usually a great talker, had still

46

more to say on the subject next his heart. " Smith has not
much above a hundred acres altogether, in his grounds,
which is httle enough, and makes it more surprising that the
place can have been so improved. Now, at Sotherton, we
have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water
meadows; so that I think, if so much could be done at
Compton, we need not despair. There have been two or three
fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and it
opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that
Repton, or anybody of that sort, would certainly have the
avenue at Sotherton down; the avenue that leads from the
west front to the top of the hill, you know,'^ turning to Miss
Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram
thought it most becoming to reply —

" The avenue ! Oh ! I do not recollect it. I really know
very little of Sotherton.'*

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund,
exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively
listening, now looked at him, and said, in a low voice —

Cut down an avenue ! What a pity ! Does it not make
you think of Cowper? * Ye fallen avenues, once more I
mourn your fate unmerited.' "

He smiled as he answered, " I am afraid the avenue stands
a bad chance, Fanny."

" I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to
see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not
suppose I shall.''

Have you never been there? No, you never can; and,
unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could
contrive it."

" Oh ! it does not signify. Whenever I do see it, you will
tell me how it has been altered."

I collect," said Miss Crawford, that Sotherton is an old
place, and a place of some grandeur. In any particular style
of building?"

" The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large,
regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and
has many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of
the lowest spots of the park; in that respect, unfavourable
for improvement. But the woods are fine, and there is a
stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of.

mAS^FIELD PA1{K

Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it
a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done
extremely well."

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself,
" He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it."

" I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued;
" but, had I a place to new-fashion, I should not put myself
into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an
inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired
progressively. I would rather abide by my own blunders,
than by his."

" You would know what you were about, of course; but
that would not suit me, I have no eye or ingenuity for such
matters, but as they are before me; and had I a place of my
own in the country, I should be most thankful to any Mr.
Repton who would undertake it, and give me as much beauty
as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till
it was complete."

" It would be delightful to me to see the progress of it
all," said Fanny.

" Ay, you have been brought up to it. It was no part of
my education ; and the only dose I ever had, being adminis-
tered by not the first favourite in the world, has made me
consider improvements in hand as the greatest of nuisances.
Three years ago, the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a
cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in;
and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures ; but it
being excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be
improved, and for three months we were all dirt and confu-
sion, without a gravel walk to step on, or a bench fit for use.
I would have everything as complete as possible in the
country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic seats
innumerable: but it must all be done without my care.
Henry is different, he loves to be doing."

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was
much disposed to admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It
did not suit his sense of propriety, and he was silenced, till
induced by further smiles and liveliness, to put the matter by
for the present.

" Mr. Bertram," said she, " I have tidings of my harp at
last. I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there

48 :MA3^FIELD pa%k.

it has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn
assurances we have so often received to the contrary."
Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise. The truth
is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant, we
went ourselves : this will not do seventy miles from London ;
but this morning we heard of it in the right way. It was
seen by some farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller
told the butcher, and the butcher's son-in-law left word at
the shop."

I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever
means, and hope there will be no farther delay."

" I am to have it to-morrow; but, how do you think it is
to be conveyed ? Not by a waggon or cart : oh no ! nothing
of that kind could be hired in the village. I might as well
have asked for porters and a hand-barrow."

You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the
middle of a very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart "

" I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made
of it! To want a horse and cart in the country seemed im-
possible, so I told my maid to speak for one directly ; and as
I cannot look out of my dressing-closet without seeing one
farm-yard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing
another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was
rather grieved that I could not give the advantage to all.
Guess my surprise, when I found that I had been asking the
most unreasonable, most impossible thing in the world ; had
offended all the farmers, all the labourers, all the hay in the
parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had better
keep out of his way; and my brother-in-law himself, who is
all kindness in general, looked rather black upon me, when
be found what I had been at."

You could not be expected to have thought on the subject
before; but when you do think of it, you must see the im-
portance of getting in the grass. The hire of a cart at any
time might not be so easy as you suppose; our farmers are
not in the habit of letting them out : but, in harvest, it must
be quite out of their power to spare a horse."

I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming
down with the true London maxim, that everything is to be
got with money, I was a little embarrassed at first by the
sturdy independence of your country customs. However, I

mADiSFlELD PA%K 49

am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who is
good nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche.
Will it not be honourably conveyed? "

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument,
and hoped to be soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never
heard the harp at all, and wished for it very much.

" I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss
Crawford; at least as long as you can like to listen: prob-
ably much longer, for I dearly love music myself, and where
the natural taste is equal the player must always be best off,
for she is gratified in more ways than one. Now, Mr. Bertram,
if you write to your brother, I entreat you to tell him that
my harp is come; he heard so much of my misery about it.
And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most
plaintive airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings,
as I know his horse will lose."

If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do
not, at present, foresee any occasion for writing."

No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth,
would you ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could
be helped. The occasion would never be foreseen. What
strange creatures brothers are! You would not write to
each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world ;
and when obliged to take up a pen to say that such a horse is
ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible
words. You have but one style among you. I know it per-
fectly. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly what a
brother should be, who loves me, consults me, confides in me,
and will talk to me by the hour together, has never yet turned
the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more than —
* Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath seems full, and every-
thing as usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly
style; that is a complete brother's letter."

" When they are at a distance from all their family," said
Fanny, colouring for William's sake, " they can write long
letters."

" Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, " whose
excellence as a correspondent makes her think you too severe
upon us."

" At sea, has she? In the king's service, of course? "
Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but

50

mAO^^FIELD PA%K

his determined silence obliged her to relate her brother's
situation; her voice was animated in speaking of his pro-
fession^ and the foreign stations he had been on; but she
could not mention the number of years that he had been
absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly
wished him an early promotion.

Do you know anything of my cousin's captain? " said
Edmund; Captain Marshall? You have a large acquaint-
ance in the navy, I conclude? ''

''Among admirals, large enough; but/* with an air of
grandeur, we know very little of the inferior ranks. Post-
captains may be very good sort of men, but they do not belong
to us. Of various admirals I could tell you a great deal ; of
them and their flags, and the gradation of their pay, and their
bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure you
that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly,
my home at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle
of admirals. Of Rears and Vices, I saw enough. Now do
not be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat."

Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, '' It is a noble
profession."

Yes, the profession is well enough under two circum-
stances; if it make the fortune, and there be discretion in
spending it; but, in short, it is not a favourite profession of
mine. It has never worn an amiable form to meJ^

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in
the prospect of hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still
under consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant
could not help addressing her brother, though it was calling
his attention from Miss Julia Bertram.

My dear Henry, have you nothing to say? You have
been an improver yourself, and from what I hear of Evering-
ham, it may vie with any place in England. Its natural
beauties, I am sure, are great. Everingham, as it used to be,
was perfect in my estimation; such a happy fall of ground,
and such timber! What would I not give to see it again."

Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your
opinion of it," was his answer; " but I fear there would be
some disappointment: you would not find it equal to your
present ideas. In extent, it is a mere nothing; you would

mA3^FIELD PA%K 51

be surprised at its insignificance ; and, as for improvement,
there was very little for me to do — too little ; I should like
to have been busy much longer.''

You are fond of the sort of thing? " said Julia.

" Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of
the ground, which pointed out, even to a very young eye,
what little remained to be done, and my own consequent
resolutions, I had not been of age three months before Evering-
ham was all that it is now. My plan was laid at Westminster,
a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at one-and-
twenty executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for
having so much happiness yet before him. I have been a
devourer of my own."

Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act
quickly," said Julia. You can never want employment.
Instead of envying Mr. Rushworth, you should assist him
with your opinion."

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced
it warmly; persuaded that no judgment could be equal to
her brother's; and as Miss Bertram caught at the idea like-
wise, and gave it her full support, declaring that, in her
opinion, it was infinitely better to consult with friends and
disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the busi-
ness into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth
was very ready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's
assistance; and Mr. Crawford, after properly depreciating
his own abilities, was quite at his service in any way that
could be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to propose Mr.
Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to Sotherton,
and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in
her two nieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which
was to take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amend-
ment.

There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness;
but why should not more of us go? Why should not we
make a little party ? Here are many that would be interested
in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth, and that
would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, and
that might be of some small use to you with their opinions;
and for my own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon
your good mother again; nothing but having no horses of my

52 mA3^FIELD PA%K

own could have made me so remiss ; but now I could go and
sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth^ while the rest of you
walked about and settled things, and then we could all
return to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as
might be most agreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant
drive home by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would
take my two nieces and me in his barouche, and Edmund can
go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny will stay at
home with you.''

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one con-
cerned in the going was forward in expressing their ready
concurrence, excepting Edmund, who heard it all and said
nothing.

CHJfPTEI^VII

Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford now ? "
said Edmund the next day, after thinking some time on the
subject himself. How did you like her yesterday? "

Very well — ^very much. I like to hear her talk. She
entertains me; and she is so extremely pretty, that I have
great pleasure in looking at her."

"Is it her countenance that is so attractive. She has a
wonderful play of feature! But was there nothing in her
conversation that struck you, Fanny, as not quite right? "

Oh, yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as
she did. I was quite astonished. An uncle with whom she
has been living so many years, and who, whatever his faults
may be, is so very fond of her brother, treating him, they say,
quite like a son. I could not have believed it ! ''

" I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong;
very indecorous."

And very ungrateful, I think."

Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her
uncle has any claim to her gratitude ; his wife certainly had ;
and it is the warmth of her respect for her aunt's memory
which misleads her here. She is awkwardly circumstanced.
With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be diffi-

mAS^FIELD PA1(K

cult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without
throwing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know
which was most to blame in their disagreements, though the
iVdmiral's present conduct might incHne one to the side of
his wife; but it is natural and amiable that Miss Crawford
should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her
opinions : but there certainly is impropriety in making them
public."

Do not you think/' said Fanny, after a little considera-
tion, that this impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs.
Crawford, as her niece has been entirely brought up by her?
She cannot have given her right notions of what was due to
the Admiral."

That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults
of the niece to have been those of the aunt; and it makes one
more sensible of the disadvantages she has been under. But
I think her present home must do her good. Mrs. Grant's
manners are just what they ought to be. She speaks of her
brother with a very pleasing affection."

Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She
made me almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the
love or good nature of a brother, who will not give himself
the trouble of writing anything worth reading to his sisters,
when they are separated. I am sure William would never
have used me so, under any circumstances. And what right
had she to suppose that you would not write long letters when
you were absent? "

The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may
contribute to its own amusement or that of others; per-
fectly allowable, when untinctured by ill humour or rough-
ness ; and there is not a shadow of either in the countenance
or manner of Miss Crawford : nothing sharp, or loud, or coarse.
She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we have
been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad
you saw it all as I did."

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had
a good chance of her thinking like him; though at this period,
and on this subject, there began now to be some danger of
dissimilarity, for he was in a line of admiration of Miss Craw-
ford, which might lead him where Fanny could not follow.
Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived,

54 mADiSFIELD PA%K

and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good humour; for
she played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression
and taste which were peculiarly becoming, and there was
something clever to be said at the close of every air. Edmund
was at the Parsonage every day, to be indulged with his
favourite instrument: one morning secured an invitation for
the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a
listener, and everything was soon in a fair train.

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as
herself, and both placed near a window, cut down to the
ground, and opening on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs
in the rich foliage of summer, was enough to catch any man's
heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable to
tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour
frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony;
and as everything will turn to account when love is once set
going, even the sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the
honours of it, were worth looking at. Without studying the
business, however, or knowing what he was about, Edmund
was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse, to be
a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it may be
added, that, without his being a man of the world or an
elder brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the
gaieties of small talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She
felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen, and could
hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any
common rule; he talked no nonsense; he paid no compli-
ments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil
and simple. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity,
his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be
equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with herself. She
did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her
for the present; she liked to have him near her; it was
enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parson-
age every morning; she would gladly have been there too,
might she have gone in uninvited and unnoticed, to hear the
harp; neither could she wonder that, when the evening
stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he should
think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their
home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the

55

Park; but she thought it a very bad exchange; and if
Edmund were not there to mix the wine and water for her,
would rather go without it than not. She was a little sur-
prised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Craw-
ford, and not see m.ore of the sort of fault which he had
already observed, and of which she was almost always re-
minded by a something of the same nature whenever she
was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was fond of
speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it
enough that the Admiral had since been spared; and she
scrupled to point out her own remarks to him, lest it should
appear like ill nature. The first actual pain which Miss
Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an inclina-
tion to learn to ride, which the former caught soon after her
being settled at Mansfield, from the example of the young
ladies at the Park, and which, when Edmund's acquaintance
with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, and the
offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first
attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner, that either stable
could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was designed
by him to his cousin in this offer: she was not to lose a day's
exercise by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the
Parsonage half an hour before her ride were to begin; and
Fanny, on its being first proposed, so far from feeling slighted,
was almost overpowered with gratitude that he should be
asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to
herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had
taken down the mare and presided at the whole, returned
with it in excellent time, before either Fanny or the steady
old coachman, who always attended her when she rode
without her cousins, were ready to set forward. The second
day's trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment
of riding was such, that she did not know how to leave off.
Active and fearless, and, though rather small, strongly made,
she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure
genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably
added in Edmund's attendance and instructions, and some-
tliing more in the conviction of very much surpassing her
sex in general by her early progress, to make her unwilling
to dismount. Fanny was ready and waiting, and Mrs.

56

mJ3^FIELD PA%K

Norris was beginning to scold ker for not being gone, and
still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To
avoid her aunt, and look for him, she went out.

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not
within sight of each other ; but, by walking fifty yards from
the hall door, she could look down the park, and command
a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes, gently rising
beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's meadow she
immediately saw the group: Edmund and Miss Crawford
both on horseback, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant,
and Mr. Crawford, with two or three grooms, standing about
and looking on. A happy party it appeared to her, all
interested in one object: cheerful beyond a doubt, for the
sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound
which did not make her cheerful ; she wondered that Edmund
should forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her
eyes from the meadow ; she could not help watching all that
passed. At first Miss Crawford and her companion made
the circuit of the field, which was not small, at a foot's pace;
then, at her apparent suggestion, they rose into a canter;
and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to see
how well she sat. After a few minutes, they stopped en-
tirely. Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her;
he was evidently directing her management of the bridle;
he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination
supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not
wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that
Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving his
good nature by any one ? She could not but think, indeed,
that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him the trouble ;
that it would have been particularly proper and becoming
in a brother to have done it himself ; but Mr. Crawford, with
all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship^
probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no active
kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it
rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty ; if she
were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tran-
quillised, by seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and
Miss Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund
on foot, pass through a gate into the lane, and so into the

^AOiSFIELD PA%K

57

park^ and make towards the spot where she stood. She
began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient;
and walked to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the
suspicion.

" My dear Miss Price/' said Miss Crawford, as soon as she
was at all within hearing, " I am come to make my own
apologies for keeping you waiting ; but I have nothing in the
world to say for myself. I knew it was very late, and that
I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if you please,
you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven,
you know, because there is no hope of a cure."

Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added
his conviction that she could be in no hurry. " For there
is more than time enough for my cousin to ride twice as far
as she ever goes," said he, and you have been promoting
her comfort by preventing her from setting off half-an-hour
sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer
from the heat as she would have done then. I wish you may
not be fatigued by so much exercise. I wish you had saved
yourself this walk home."

" No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I
assure you," said she, as she sprang down with his help;

I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me, but doing
what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to you with a
very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant
ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this
dear, delightful, beautiful animal."

The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his
own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and
they set off across another part of the park; her feelings of
discomfort not lightened by seeing, as she looked back, that
the others were walking down the hill together to the village;
nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on
Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horsewoman, which he
had been watching with an interest almost equal to her own.

" It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for
riding! " said he. " I never see one sit a horse better. She
did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from
you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come next
Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir
Thomas first had you put on ! "

58 mAD<^FIELD PA%K

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated.
Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and
courage, was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her
delight in riding was like their own; her early excellence
in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in
praising it.

I was sure she would ride well/' said Julia; she has
the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's.''

Yes/' added Maria, " and her spirits are as good, and
she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think
that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the
mind."

When they parted at night, Edmund asked Fanny whether
she meant to ride the next day.

No, I do not know — not if you want the mare," was her
answer. I do not want her at all for myself," said he;

but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I
think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time
— for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to
get as far as Mansfield Common; Mrs. Grant has been telling
her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being per-
fectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She
would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would
be very wrong if she did. She rides only for pleasure; you
for health."

I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; I
have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at
home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very
well."

Edmund looked pleased, v/hich must be Fanny's comfort,
and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morn-
ing: the party included all the young people but herself, and
was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in
the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort
generally brings on another; and the having been to Mans-
field Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the
day after. There were many other views to be shown; and
though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever
they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with
a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in
this manner, in showing the Crawfords the country, and

mADiSFIELD PA%K 59

doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered;
it was all gaiety and good humour, the heat only supplying
inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure — till the
fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was
exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund
and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and she was
excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with per-
fect good humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was
partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a
very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely
taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached
home. As Mr. Rushworth did not come, the injury was
increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her
power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother,
aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over
their dinner and dessert.

Between ten and eleven, Edmund and Julia walked into
the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and
cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three
ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes
from her book, and Lady Bertram was half asleep ; and even
Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill humour, and
having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which
were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined
to say no more. For a few minutes, the brother and sister
were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks
on the stars, to think beyond themselves ; but when the first
pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, But where is
Fanny? Is she gone to bed?

" No, not that I know of," repHed Mrs. Norris; she was
here a moment ago."

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the
room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on
the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding.

That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all
the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit
here, and employ yourself as we do? If you have no work
of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There
is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched
yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out.
You should learn to think of other people: and take my

6o 3^A3^FIELD PA%K

word for it^ it is a shocking trick for a young person to be
always lolling upon a sofa."

Before half this was said^ Fanny was returned to her seat
at the table^ and had taken up her work again; and Julia,
who was in high good humour, from the pleasures of the day,
did her the justice of exclaiming, I must say, ma'am, that
Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house."

Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively,
" I am sure you have the headache."
She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.

I can hardly believe you," he replied; I know your
looks too well. How long have you had it? "

Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."
" Did you go out in the heat? "

Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: would
you have her stay within such a fine day as this ? Were not
we all out ? Even your mother was out to-day for above an
hour."

Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had
been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand
to Fanny; " I was out above an hour. I sat three quarters
of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses,
and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was
shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the
coming home again."

" Fanny has been cutting roses, has she? "

Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year.
Poor thing! 5Ae found it hot enough; but they were so full
blown that one could not wait."

There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris,
in a rather softened voice; but I question whether her
headache might not be caught then, sister. There is nothing
so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun;
but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let
her have your ^aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have
mine filled."

She has got it," said Lady Bertram; she has had it
ever since she came back from your house the second time."

What! " cried Edmund; has she been walking as well
as cutting roses ; walking across the hot park to your house,
and doing it twice, ma'am ? No wonder her head aches."

OdJO^FIELD PA%K 6 1

Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.
I was afraid it would be too much for her/' said Lady-
Bertram; but when the roses were gathered, your aunt
wished to have them, and then you know they must be
taken home.''

But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice "
''No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry;

and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room

and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again."
Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, And

could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny?

Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed

business."

*' I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done
better," cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; *' unless
I had gone myself, indeed, but I cannot be in two places at
once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time
about your mother's dairymaid, by her desire, and had
promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his
son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I
think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon
any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once.
And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for me
— it is not much above a quarter of a mile — I cannot think I
was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three
times a-day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and
say nothing about it? "

'' I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am."
If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she
would not be knocked up so soon. She has not been out on
horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded, that
when she does not ride, she ought to walk. If she had been
riding before, I should not have asked it of her. But I
thought it would rather do her good after being stooping
among the roses ; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk
after a fatigue of that kind; and though the sun was strong,
it was not so very hot. Between ourselves, Edmund,"
nodding significantly at his mother, it was cutting the
roses, and dawdhng about in the flower-garden, that did the
mischief."

I am afraid it was, indeed," said the more candid Lady

62 mAS^FIELD PA%K

Bertram^ who had overheard her; I am very much afraid
she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough to
kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear myself.
Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the
flower-beds, was almost too much for me.*'

Edmund said no more to either lady ; but going quietly to
another table, on which the supper tray yet remained, brought
a glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink the
greater part. She wished to be able to decline it; but the
tears, which a variety of feelings created, made it easier to
swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was
still more angry with himself. His own forgetfulness of her
was worse than anything which they had done. Nothing of
this would have happened had she been properly considered ;
but she had been left four days together without any choice
of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for avoid-
ing whatever her unreasonable aunts might require. He was
ashamed to think that for four days together she had not had
the power of riding, and very seriously resolved, however
unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford's,
that it should never happen again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first
evening of her arrival at the Park. The state of her spirits
had probably had its share in her indisposition; for she had
been feeling neglected, and been struggling against discon-
tent and envy for some days past. As she leant on the sofa,
to which she had retreated that she might not be seen, the
pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head;
and the sudden change which Edmund's kindness had then
occasioned, made her hardly know how to support herself.

CH^PTE% Fill

Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it
was a pleasant fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the
weather had lately been, Edmund trusted that her losses both
of health and pleasure would be soon made good. While

3IA3<^FIELD PJ'l^

63

she was gone^ Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother,
who came to be civil and to show her civiUty especially, in
urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton,
which had been started a fortnight before, and which, in con-
sequence of her subsequent absence from home, had since
lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all well
pleased with its revival, and an early day was named, and
agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged; the
young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs.
Norris would willingly have answered for his being so, they
would neither authorise the liberty, nor run the risk ; and at
last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth dis-
covered that the properest thing to be done was for him to
walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Craw-
ford, and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.

Before his return, Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in.
Having been out some time, and taken a different route to
the house, they had not met him. Comfortable hopes, how-
aver, were given that he would find Mr. Crawford at home.
The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was
hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked
of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs.
Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman,
who thought nothing of consequence, but as it related to her
own and her son's concerns, had not yet given over pressing
Lady Bertram to be of the party. Lady Bertram constantly
declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made Mrs.
Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's
more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the
truth.

" The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal
too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten
miles there, and ten back, you know. You must excuse my
sister on this occasion, and accept of our two dear girls and
myself without her. Sotherton is the only place that could
give her a wish to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She
will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will
all do very well; and as for Edmund, as he is not here to
speak for himself, I will answer for his being most happy to
join the party. He can go on horseback, you know."

Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's

64 MA^iSFlELD PA%K

staying at home, could only be sorry. " The loss of her
ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she
should have been extremely happy to have seen the young
lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet,
and it was a pity she should not see the place."

You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear
madam," cried Mrs. Norris; " but as to Fanny, she will have
opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has time
enough before her; and her going now is quite out of the
question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her."

Oh no ! I cannot do without Fanny."
Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that
everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss
Crawford in the invitation ; and though [Mrs.] ^ Grant, who
had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on
her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it on her
own account; she was glad to secure any pleasure for her
sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not
long in accepting her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth
came back from the Parsonage successful; and Edmund
made his appearance just in time to learn what had been
settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her
carriage, and walk half way down the park with the two
other ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris
trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's
being of the party were desirable or not, or whether her
brother's barouche would not be full without her. The Miss
Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that the barouche
would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on
which one might go with him."

But why is it necessary," ,said Edmund, " that Craw-
ford's carriage, or his only, should be employed ? Why is no
use to be made of my mother's chaise ? I could not, when the
scheme was first mentioned the other day, understand why a
visit from the family were not to be made in the carriage of
the family."

"What!" cried Julia: ''go, box'd up three in a post-
chaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche !
No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do."

^ Printed Miss " in the early editions.

3\4A3iSFIELD PA%K 65

" Besides/' said Maria, " I know that Mr. Crawford
depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would
claim it as a promise."

" And, my dear Edmund/' added Mrs. Norris, " taking
out two carriages when one will do, would be trouble for
nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very
fond of the roads between this and Sotherton; he always
complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage,
and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,
when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off."

That would not be a very handsome reason for using
Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; but the truth is, that Wilcox
is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I
will answer for it, that we shall find no inconvenience from
narrow roads on Wednesday."

There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"
said Edmund, in going on the barouche box."

"Unpleasant!" cried Maria: oh dear! I believe it
would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can
be no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably
Miss Crawford will choose the barouche box herself."

" There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with
you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her."

Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund,
there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her
aunt. I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected."

" You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he,
addressing his mother, " for wishing Fanny not to be of the
party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If
you could do without her, you would not wish to keep her at
home.?"

" To be sure not, but I cannot do without her."

" You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do."

There was a general cry out at this. " Yes," he continued,
" there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at
home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know
she wishes it very much. She has not often a gratification of
the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be glad to give
her the pleasure now^? "

" Oh, yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection."

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which

66 MAH§FIELD PA1{K

could remain — their having positively assured Mrs, Rush-
worth that Fanny could not go, and the. very strange appear-
ance there would consequently be in taking her, which
seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over.
It must have the strangest appearance ! It would be some-
thing so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for
Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern of
good-breeding and attention, that she really did not feel
equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no
wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her opposi-
tion to Edmund now, arose more from partiality for her own
scheme, because it was her own, than from anything else.
She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well,
and that any alteration must be for the worse. When
Edmund, therefore, told her in reply, as he did when she
would give him the hearing, that she need not distress herself
on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the
opportunity as he walked with her through the hall of
mentioning Miss Price as one who would probably be of the
party, and had directly received a very sufficient invitation
for \his] ^ cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit
with a very good grace, and would only say, " Very well,
very well, just as you choose, settle it your own way, I am
sure I do not care about it."

It seems very odd," said Maria, " that you should be
staying at home instead of Fanny."

" I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,"
added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a
consciousness that she ought to offer to stay at home herself.

Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,"
was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.

Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact,
much greater than her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kind-
ness with all, and more than all, the sensibility which he,
unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be aware of ; but
that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave
her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would
be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced
another alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted

^ Printed " her " in the early editions.

MAS^FIELD PA%K 67

with general approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as
companion for the day to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son,
and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram
was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies
were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for
an arrangement wliich restored him to his share of the party ;
and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at
her tongue's end, and was on the point of proposing it, when
Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche
arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody
was ready, there was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant
to alight, and the others to take their places. The place of
all places, the envied seat, the post of honour, was unappro-
priated. To whose happy lot was it to fall.^* While each of
the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the
most appearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the
matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying, as she stepped
from the carriage, As there are five of you, it will be better
that one should sit with Henry; and as you were saying
lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think this
will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.

Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the
barouche-box in a moment, the latter took her seat within,
in gloom and mortification ; and the carriage drove off amid
the good wishes of the two remaining ladies, and the barking
of Pug in his mistress's arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny,
whose rides had never been extensive, was soon beyond her
knowledge, and was very happy in observing all that was
new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was not often
invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did she
desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually
her best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the
country, the bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the
state of the harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she
found entertainment that could only have been heightened
by having Edmund to speak to of what she felt. That was
the only point of resemblance between her and the lady who
, sat by her; in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss
Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny's

68 3\4A3iSFIELD PAliK

/deli cacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inani'
S>>mate Nature, with little observation; her attention was all
lor men and women, her talents for the light and lively. In
looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any
stretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in
ascending a considerable hill, they were united, and a there
he is " broke at the same moment from them both, more
than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real
comfort; her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and
her sister sitting side by side, full of conversation and merri-
ment; and to see only his expressive profile as he turned
with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh of the other, was
a perpetual source of irritation, which her own sense of pro-
priety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back,
it was with a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke
to them, it was in the highest spirits: " her view of the
country was charming, she wished they could all see it," etc.;
but her only offer of exchange was addressed to Miss Craw-
ford, as they gained the summit of a long hill, and was not
more inviting than this: Here is a fine burst of country. I
wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it,
let me press you ever so much; " and Miss Crawford could
hardly answer, before they were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associa-
tions, it was better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to
have two strings to her bow. She had Rushworth-feelings,
and Crawford-feelings, and in the vicinity of Sotherton, the
former had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth's conse-
quence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that
" those woods belonged to Sotherton; " she could not care-
lessly observe that " she believed that it was now all Mr. Rush-
worth's property on each side of the road,'' without elation
of heart; and it was a pleasure to increase with their approach
to the capital freehold mansion, and ancient manorial resi-
dence of the family, with all its rights of court-leet and
court-baron.

" Now, we shall have no more rough road. Miss Crawford;
our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is such as it
ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded
to the estate. Here begins the village. Those cottages are

mA^KSFIELD PA%K 69

really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned reh?-arkably
handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great
house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the
bells must be terrible. There is the parsonage; a tidy-
looking house, and I understand the clergyman and his wife
are very decent people. Those are alms-houses, built by
some of the family. To the right is the steward's house; he
is a very respectable man. Now, we are coming to the lodge-
gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. It
is not ugly, you see, at this end ; there is some fine timber,
but the situation of the house is dreadful. We go down hill
to it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an
ill-looking place if it had a better approach."

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well
guessed Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point of
honour to promote her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs.
Norris was all delight and volubility; and even Fanny had
something to say in admiration, and might be heard with
complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything
within her reach ; and after being at some pains to get a viev/
of the house, and observing that it was a sort of building
which she could not look at but with respect," she added.

Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I
perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it.
Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front."

" Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little
distance, and ascends for half-a-mile to the extremity of the
grounds. You may see something of it here — something of
the more distant trees. It is oak entirely."

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information
of what she had known nothing about, when Mr. Rushworth
had asked her opinion; and her spirits were in as happy a
flutter as vanity and pride could furnish, when they drove
up to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance.

CH^PTE'E^IX

Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady;
and the whole party were welcomed by him with due atten-
tion. In the drawing-room they were met with equal

MASiSFlELD PA1{K

cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all the dis-
tinction with each that she could wish. After the business
oi arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the
doors were thrown open to admit them through one or two
intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlour, where
a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance.
Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well. The
particular object of the day was then considered. How
would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he choose,
to take a survey of the grounds ? Mr. Rushworth mentioned
his curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirable-
ness of some carriage which might convey more than two.

To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes
and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss
of present pleasure."

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken
also; but this was scarcely received as an amendment: the
young ladies neither smiled nor spoke. Her next proposi-
tion, of shewing the house to such of them as had not been
there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be
doing something.

The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rush-
worth's guidance were shewn through a number of rooms, all
lofty, and many large, and amply furnished in the taste of
fifty years back, with shining floors, solid mahogany, rich
damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in its
way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good,
but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything
to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great
pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach, and was
now almost equally well qualified to shew the house. On the
present occasion, she addressed herself chiefly to Miss Craw-
ford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willing-
ness of their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen
scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only
the appearance of civilly listening, while Famiy, to whom
everything was almost as interesting as it was new, attended
with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could
relate of the family in former times, its rise and grandeur,
regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything

with history already known^ or warm her imagination
scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much
prospect from any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some
of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth^ Henry Craw-
ford was looking grave and shaking his head at the windows.
Every room on the west front looked across a lawn to the
beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron
palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed
to be of any other use than to contribute to the window tax,
and find employment for housemaids, " Now/' said Mrs.
Rushworth, " we are coming to the chapel, which properly
we ought to enter from above, and look down upon : but as
we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if
you will excuse me."

They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for
something grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted
up for the purpose of devotion: with nothing more striking
or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany, and the
crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of the
family gallery above. " I am disappointed," said she, in a
low voice to Edmund. This is not my idea of a chapel.
There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing
grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions, no
banners. No banners, cousin, to be ' blown by the night
wind of heaven.' No signs that a * Scottish monarch sleeps
below.' "

" You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built,
and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old
chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the
private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose,
in the parish church. There you must look for the banners
and the atchievements."

" It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am
disappointed."

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. " This chapel was
fitted up as you see it, in James the Second's time. Before
that period, as I understand, the pews were only wainscot;
and there is some reason to think that the linings and cushions
of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this

MASiS FIELD PAliK

jt quite certain. It is a handsome chapel^ and was
^rmerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers
were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the
memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off."

" Every generation has its improvements/' said Miss
Crawford, with a smile, to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Craw-
ford; and Edmund, Fanny and Miss Crawford, remained in
a cluster together.

" It is a pity," cried Fanny, " that the custom should have
been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times.
There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in
character with a great house, with one's ideas of what such
a household should be ! A whole family assembling regularly
for the purpose of prayer is fine ! "

Very fiine, indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. " It
must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force
all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and
pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a-day, while they
are inventing excuses themselves for staying away."

That is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said
Edmund. " If the master and mistress do not attend them-
selves, there must be more harm than good in the custom."

" At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own
devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own
way — to choose their own time and manner of devotion. The
obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the
length of time — altogether it is a formidable thing, and what
nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and
gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would
ever come when men and women might lie another ten
minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without
danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would
have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with
what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rush-
worth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young
Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets — starched up into seeming
piety, but with heads full of something very different —
especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at
— and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior
even to what they are now."

MAJiSFIELD PA'RK

73

For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured
and looked at Edmund^ but felt too angry for speech; and
he needed a little recollection before he could say, Your
lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects.
You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature
cannot say it was not so. We must all feel at times the diffi-
culty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are
supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness
grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from
the private devotions of such persons? Do you think the
minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings
in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet? "

" Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least
in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention
from without, and it would not be tried so long."

" The mind which does not struggle against itself under
one circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the
other J I believe; and the influence of the place and of example
may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The
greater length of the service, however, I admit to be some-
times too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were
not so ; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget
what chapel prayers are."

While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered
about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to
her sister, by saying, " Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria,
standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going
to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it? "

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping for-
ward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, " I
do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar."

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but
recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked
him, in a tone not much louder, If he would give her away ?"

" I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his
reply, with a look of meaning.

Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.

" Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take
place directly, if we had but a proper license, for here we are
altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and
pleasant." And she talked and laughed about it with so

74 MA3^FIELD PA'B^

little caution, as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rush-
worth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered
gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with
proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event
to her whenever it took place.

" If Edmund were but in orders ! " cried Julia, and running
to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: " My dear
Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform
the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not
ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.'*

Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have
amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast
under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her.

How distressed she will be at what she said just now,"
passed across her mind.

" Ordained! " said Miss Crawford; " what, are you to be
a clergyman? "

" Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return;
probably at Christmas."

Miss Crawford rallying her spirits, and recovering her com-
plexion, replied only, " If I had known this before, I would
have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned
the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and
stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, through-
out the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led
the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there
long enough.

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shown,
and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have
proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them
through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed
with a doubt of there being time enough. " For if," said he,
with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer
head does not always avoid, " we are too long going over the
house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of
doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five."

Mrs. Rushworth submitted ; and the question of surveying
the grounds, with the who and the how was likely to be more
fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by
what junction of carriages and horses most could be done,

mAD<SFIELD PA%K 75

when the young people, meeting with an outward door,
temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately
to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as
by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

" Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs.
Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following them.
" Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are
the curious pheasants."

" Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, " whether
we* may not find something to employ us here, before we go
farther? I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth,
shall we simimon a council on this lawn? "

" James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, " I believe the
wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams
have never seen the wilderness yet."

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no
inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance. All were
attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dis-
persed about in happy independence. Mr. Crawford was the
first to move forward, to examine the capabilities of that end
of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high
wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green,
and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed
by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into
the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoin-
ing. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford
was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth;
and when, after a little time, the others began to form into
parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the
terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed
as naturally to unite, and who, after a short participation
of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on.
The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and
Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star
no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of
Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that
lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the
housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants,
was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the
only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot,
was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from

76 mADiSFIELD PAI^K

the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The
politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a
duty made it impossible for her to escape ; while the want of
that higher species of self-command, that just consideration
of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of
right, which had not formed any essential part of her educa-
tion, made her miserable under it.

This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when they
had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second
time to the door in the middle which opened to the wilderness.
" Shall any of us object to being comfortable ? Here is a nice
little wood, if one can but get into it. What happiness if the
door should not be locked ! but of course it is ; for in these
great places the gardeners are the only people who can go
where they like."

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were
all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving the
unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable flight of
steps landed them in the wilderness, which was a planted
wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and
laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too
much regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty,
compared with the bowling-green and the terrace. They all
felt the refreshment of it, and for some time could only walk
and admire. At length, after a short pause. Miss Crawford
began with, " So you are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram.
This is rather a surprise to me."

Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me
designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am
neither a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor."

" Very true ; but, in short, it had not occurred to me.
And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather
to leave a fortune to the second son."

A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund, but
not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and being
one, must do something for myself."

" But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought that
was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many
to choose before him."

" Do you think the church itself never chosen, then? "

" Never is a black word. But yes, in the never of conversa-

77

tion^ which means not very often, I do think it. For what is
to be done in the church ? Men love to distinguish themselves,
and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but
not in the church. A clergyman is nothing."

" The nothing of conversation has its gradations, I hope,
as well as the never, A clergyman cannot be high in state or
fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress.
But I cannot call that situation nothing which has the charge
of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually
or collectively considered, temporally and eternally, which
has the guardianship of religion and morals, and conse-
quently of the manners which result from their influence.
No one here can call the office nothing. If the man who holds
it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just
importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he
ought not to appear."

" You assign greater consequence to the clergyman than
one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite compre-
hend. One does not see much of this influence and import-
ance in society, and how can it be acquired where they are
so seldom seen themselves ? How can two sermons a week,
even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher
to have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you
speak of ? govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a
large congregation for the rest of the week? One scarcely
sees a clergyman out of his pulpit."

" You are speaking of London, I am speaking of the nation
at large."

" The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of
the rest."

Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice
throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities for
our best morality. It is not there that respectable people of
any denomination can do most good ; and it certainly is not
there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A
fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine
preaching only that a good clerygman will be useful in his
parish and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neigh-
bourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private char-
acter, and obser^dng his general conduct, which in London
can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in the crowds

78

:mao<sfield pj^

of their parishioners. They are known to the largest part
only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing
public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me,
or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters of good breeding,
the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the
ceremonies of life. The manners I speak of might rather be
called conduct y perhaps, the result of good principles; the
effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to
teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere
found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to
be, so are the rest of the nation."

Certainly/' said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

" There," cried Miss Crawford, " you have quite convinced
Miss Price already."

" I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too."

" I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch
smile; " I am just as much surprised now as I was at first
that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit
for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is
not too late. Go into the law."

" Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to
go into this wilderness."

" Now you are going to say something about law being
the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; re-
member, I have forestalled you."

You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent
my saying a bon-mot, for there is not the least wit in my
nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and
may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half-an-hour
together without striking it out."

A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful.
Fanny made the first interruption by saying, I wonder
that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood ;
but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable
to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while."

" My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing
her arm within his, " how thoughtless I have been ! I hope
you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford,
" my other companion may do me the honour of taking an
arm."

" Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it,

79

however, as she spoke, and the gratification of iiavm^^i.,^^. 5^
so, of feeling such a connection for the first time, made him
a little forgetful of Fanny. " You scarcely touch me," said
he. " You do not make me of any use. What a difference
in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At
Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on
me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the
comparison."

I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we
must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you
think we have? "

" Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not
yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time,
with feminine lawlessness.

" Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound
about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and
the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for
we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first
great path."

" But if you remember, before we left that first great path,
we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole
vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have
been more than a furlong in length."

" Oh ! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is
a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out
ever since we came into it; and, therefore, when I say that we
have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass."

" We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said
Edmund, taking out his watch. " Do you think we are
walking four miles an hour.? "

"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is
always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a
watch."

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the
very walk they had been talking of; and standing back, well
shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into the park,
was a comfortable-sized bench on which they all sat down.

" I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund,
observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This
will be a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be
knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon,
Miss Crawford, except riding."

8o

^MAS^FIELD PA%K

: ' -*.u»uiniaable in you, then, to let me engross her
horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of
myself, but it shall never happen again/'

Your attentiveness and consideration makes me more
sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer
hands with you than with me/'

" That she should be tired now, however, gives me no sur-
prise; for there is nothing in the course of one's duties so
, fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning: seeing
a great house, dawdling from one room to another, straining
one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does not
\ understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is

generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and
Miss Price has found it so, though she did not know it."

I shall soon be rested," said Fanny ; to sit in the shade
on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect
refreshment."

After sitting a little while. Miss Crawford was up again.
" I must move," said she, " resting fatigues me. I have
looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and
look through that iron gate at the same view, without being
able to see it so well."

Edmund left the seat likewise. " Now, Miss Crawford, if
you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it
cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile."

" It is an immense distance," said she; " I see that with a
glance."

He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not cal-
culate, she would not compare. She would only smile and
assert. The greatest degree of rational consistency could not
have been more engaging, and they talked with mutual satis-
faction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavour
to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little
more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line
they were then in (for there was a straight green walk along
the bottom by the side of the ha-ha), and perhaps turn a
little way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist
them, and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was
rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered.
Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnest-
ness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench

mAd<^FIELD PA%K 8i

to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great
regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till
they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them
had ceased.

A QUARTER of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and
Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and
herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be
surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious
desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She
listened, and at length she heard ; she heard voices and feet
approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was
not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth,
and Mr. Crawford, issued from the same path which she had
trod herself, and were before her.

" Miss Price all alone ! " and " my dear Fanny, how comes
this? " were the first salutations. She told her story.
" Poor dear Fanny," cried her cousin, " how ill you have been
used by them ! You had better have staid with us.''

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she
resumed the conversation which had engaged them before,
and discussed the possibility of improvements with much
animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford
was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, what-
ever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and
then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to
be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original
thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his
friend Smith's place.

After some minutes spent in this way. Miss Bertram,
observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through
it into the park, that their views and their plans might be
more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to
be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding
with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion, and he
directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them
exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore

82 ^JJ^SFIELD PA1(K

they must to that knoll, and through that gate ; but the gate
was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key;
he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring
the key; he was determined he would never come without
the key again ; but still this did not remove the present evil.
They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclina-
tion for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr.
Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch
the key. He set off accordingly.

''It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we
are so far from the house already/' said Mr. Crawford, when
he was gone.

" Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely,
do not you find the place altogether worse than you ex-
pected.^ "

" No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander,
more complete in its style, though that style may not be the
best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower,
*' I do not think that / shall ever see Sotherton again with
so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly
improve it to me."

After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, '' You
are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of
the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I
have no doubt that you will."

" I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world
as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not
quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such
easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of the
world."

This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began
again. " You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much
this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained.
You and Julia were laughing the whole way."

" Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the
least recollection at what. Oh ! I believe I was relating to
her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's.
Your sister loves to laugh."

" You think her more light-hearted than I am."

'' More easily amused," he replied, " consequently, you
know," smiling, '' better company. I could not have hoped

MA3<^FIELD PAI^K

83

to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles'
drive."

Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have
more to think of now."

" You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in
which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your
prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits.
You have a very smiling scene before you."

" Do you mean Uterally or figuratively? Literally, I con-
clude. Yes, certainly the sun shines, and the park looks
very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give
me a feeling of restraint and hardship. ^ I cannot get out,' as
the starling said." As she spoke, and it was with expression,
she walked to the gate: he followed her. " Mr. Rushworth
is so long fetching this key ! "

^' And for the world you would not get out without the
key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection,
or I think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge
of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it might be
done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could
allow yourself to think it not prohibited."

"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that
way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment
you know; we shall not be out of sight."

Or if we are. Miss Price will be so good as to tell him,
that he will find us near that knoll : the grove of oak on the
knoll.''

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making
an effort to prevent it. " You will hurt yourself. Miss
Bertram," she cried, " you will certainly hurt yourself against
those spikes ; you will tear your gown ; you will be in danger
of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not go."

Her cousin was safe on the other side, while these words
were spoken, and, smiling with all the good humour of success,
she said, " Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I and my gown
are alive and well, and so good-bye."

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase
of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she
had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry
with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous route, and, as it
appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to the knoll,

«4 mJDiSFIELD PA%K

they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer
she remained without sight or sound of any compa^nion. She
seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could
almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had
left it^ but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her
so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden
footsteps: somebody was coming at a quick pace down the
principal walk. She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was
Julia^ who, hot and out of breath, and with a look of disap-
pointment, cried out on seeing her, Heyday ! Where are
the others.^ I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with
you."

Fanny explained.

" A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them any-
where," looking eagerly into the park. But they cannot
be very far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria,
even without help."

But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with
the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth."

Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one
morning. Why, child, I have but this moment escaped from
his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been endur-
ing, while you were sitting here so composed and so happy !
It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my
place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes."

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow
for it, and let it pass : Julia was vexed, and her temper was
hasty ; but she felt that it would not last, and therefore taking
no notice, only asked her if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.

Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon
life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us his
errand, and where you all were."

" It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing."

" That is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish
myself for her sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long
as my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper,
but the son I can get away from."

And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and
walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of
whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund.

MJJs(SFIELD PJI^K 85

The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr.
Rushworth, prevented her thinking so much of their con-
tinued absence^ however, as she might have done. She felt
that he had been very ill used, and was quite unhappy in
having to communicate what had passed. He joined her
within five minutes after Julia's exit; and though she made
the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and dis-
/ pleased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said
/ anything; his looks only expressed his extreme surprise and
vexation, and he walked •to the gate and stood there, without
seeming to know what to do.

They desired me to stay; my cousin Maria charged me
to say that you would find them at that knoll, or there-
abouts."

I do not believe I shall go any further," said he, sullenly;
" I see nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll, they
may be gone somewhere else. I have had walking enough."

And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by
Fanny.

I am very sorry," said she; " it is very unlucky." And
she longed to be able to say something more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, I think they might as well
have staid for me," said he.

" Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."

" I should not have had to follow her if she had staid."

This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After
another pause, he went on: — Pray, Miss Price, are you
such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people
are? For my part, I can see nothing in him."

" I do not think him at all handsome."

" Handsome ! Nobody can call such an under-sized man
handsome. He is not five foot nine. I should not wonder
if he was not more than five foot eight. I think he is an ill-
looking fellow. In my opinion, these Crawfords are no
addition at all. We did very well without them."

A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know
how to contradict liim.

If 1 had made any difficulty about fetching the key,
there might have been some excuse, but I went the very
moment she said she wanted it."

" Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am

86 ^AO^FIELD PA%K

sure, and I dare say you walked as fast as you could; but
still it is some distance, you know, from this spot to the
house, quite into the house; and when people are waiting,
they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems
like five."

He got up and walked to the gate again, and " wished he
had had the key about him at the time.'* Fanny thought
she discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting,
which encouraged her to another attempt, and she said,
therefore, It is a pity you should not join them. They
expected to have a better view of the house from that part
of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved;
and nothing of that sort, you know, can be settled without
you.''

She found herself more successful in sending away, than in
retaining a companion. Mr^ Rushworth was worked on.
" Well," said he, if you really think I had better go: it
would be foolish to bring the key for nothing." And letting
himself out, he walked off without further ceremony.

Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who
had left her so long ago, and getting quite impatient, she
resolved to go in search of them. She followed their steps
along the bottom walk, and had just turned up into another,
when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once more
caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more
windings brought them before her. They were just returned
into the wilderness from the park, to which a side-gate, not
fastened, had tempted them very soon after their leaving
her, and they had been across a portion of the park into the
very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morn-
ing to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of
the trees. This was their history. It was evident that they
had been spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware
of the length of their absence. Fanny's best consolation was
in being assured that Edmund had wished for her ver>" much,
and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she
not been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to
do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour, when
he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort
of curiosity she felt, to know what they had been conversing
about all that time; and the result of the whole was to her

J14J3^FIELD PA1{K 87

disappointment and depression, as they prepared by general
agreement, to return to the house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs.
Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top,
just ready for the wilderness, at the end of an hour and a
half from their leaving the house. Mrs. Norris had been too
well employed to move faster. Whatever cross accidents
had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces, she had
found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the house-
keeper, after a great many courtesies on the subject of
pheasants, had taken her to the dairy, told her all about
their cows, and given her the receipt for a famous cream
cheese; and since Julia's leaving them, they had been met
by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory
acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's
illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him
a charm for it; and he, in return, had shown her all his
choicest nursery of plants, and actually presented her with
a very curious specimen of heath.

On this rencontre they all returned to the house together,
there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and
chit-chat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others,
and the arrival of dinner. It was late before the Miss
Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and their ramble
did not appear to have been more than partially agreeable, or
at all productive of anything useful with regard to the object
of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking
after each other, and the junction which had taken place at
last seemed, to Fanny's observation, to have been as much
too late for re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had
been for determining on any alteration. She felt, as she
looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was not the
only dissatisfied bosom amongst them; there was gloom on
the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much
more gay, and she thought that he was taking particular
pains, during dinner, to do away any little resentment of the
other two, and restore general good humour.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles'
drive home allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of
their sitting down to table, it was a quick succession of busy
nothings till the carriage came to the door, and Mrs. Norris,

88 MAd^^FlELD FA%Ki

having fidgeted about, and obtained a few pheasants' eggs
and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made abun-
dance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead
the way. At the same moment, Mr. Crawford, approaching
Julia, said, I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless
she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat." The
request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously
received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as
it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something
different, and was a little disappointed; but her conviction
of being really the one preferred, comforted her under it, and
enabled her to receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as
she ought. He was certainly better pleased to hand her into
the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box, and his
complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my
word," said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park.

Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end ! I am sure
you ought to be very much obliged to your aunt Bertram and
me, for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's
amusement you have had! "

Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, I
think you have done pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap
seems full of good things, and here is a basket of something
between us, which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully."

My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that
nice old gardener would make me take; but if it is in your
way, I will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you
shall carry that parcel for me ; take great care of it : do not
let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like the excellent one we
had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs.
Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as
long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and
I knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted
with. That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite
shocked when I asked her whether wine was allowed at the
second table, and she has turned away two housemaids for
wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny.
Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well."

^Vhat else have you been spunging? " said Maria, half
pleased that Sotherton should be so complimented.

mAD<SFIELD PA%K 89

*' Spimging^ my dear ! It is nothing but four of those
beautiful pheasant's eggs^ which Mrs. Whitaker would quite
force upon me; she would not take a denial. She said it
must be such an amusement to me^ as she understood I lived
quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort; and
so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set them
under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have
them moved to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will
be a great delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them.
And if I have good luck, your mother shall have some."

It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive
was as pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it ; but
when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent
drive to those within. Their spirits were in general ex-
hausted; and to determine whether the day had afforded
most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of
almost all.

CH^PTE%^XI

The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded
the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were
derived from the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards
reached Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think of
Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think of their
father in England again within a certain period, which these
letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir
Thomas wrote of it with as much decision as experience and
anxiety could authorise. His business was so nearly con-
cluded as to justify him in proposing to take his passage in
the September packet, and he consequently looked forward
with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in
November.

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the
father brought a husband, and the return of the friend most
solicitous for her happiness would unite her to the lover, on
whom she had chosen that happiness should depend. It was
a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to throw a mist

over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should see
something else. It would hardly be early in November, there
were generally delays, a bad passage or something; that
favouring something which everybody who shuts their eyes
while they look, or their understandings while they reason,
feels the comfort of. It would probably be the middle of
November at least; the middle of November was three
months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks.
Much might happen in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspi-
cion of half that his daughters felt on the subject of his
return, and would hardly have found consolation in a know-
ledge of the interest it excited in the breast of another young
lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her brother to
spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news;
and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond
politeness, and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet con-
gratulation, heard it with an attention not so easily satisfied.
Mrs. Norris gave the particulars of the letters, and the subject
was dropt; but after tea, as Miss Crawford was standing at
an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking out on a
twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth, and
Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte,
she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group,
and saying, " How happy Mr. Rushworth looks ! He is
thinking of November."

Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had
nothing to say. Your father's return will be a very
interesting event."

It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not
only long, but including so many dangers."

" It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events ;
your sister's marriage, and your taking orders."

" Yes."

" Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, but it does put
me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after
performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices
to the gods on their safe return."

" There is no sacrifice in the case," rephed Edmund, with
a serious smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again, it is
entirely her own doing."

:ma3^field pa%k 91

" Oh yes ! I know it is. I was merely joking. She has
done no more than what every young woman would do ; and
I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. My other
sacrifice of course you do not understand.^'

My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as
Maria's marrying."

" It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's
convenience should accord so well. There is a very good
living kept for you, I understand, hereabouts."

" Which you suppose has biassed me? "

" But that I am sure it has not," cried Fanny.

" Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more
than I would affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing
that there was such a provision for me probably did bias me.
Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There was no
natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason
why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that
he will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands.
I hope I should not have been influenced myself in a wrong
way, and I am sure my father was too conscientious to have
allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biassed, but I think
it was blamelessly."

"It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, after a short
pause, " as for the son of an admiral to go into the navy or
the son of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees any-
thing wrong in that. Nobody wonders that they should
prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or
suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear."

No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The
profession, either navy or army, is its own justification. It
has everything in its favour; heroism, danger, bustle, fashion.
Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society.
Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors."

But the motives of a man who takes orders with the
certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected you think? "
said Edmund. " To be justified in your eyes, he must do it
in the most complete uncertainty of any provision."

**What! take orders without a living! No; that is
madness indeed; absolute madness."

" Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is
neither to take orders with a living, nor without? No; for

92 mAOiSFIELD PA%K

you certainly would not know what to say. But I must beg
some advantage to the clergyman from your own argument.
As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank
highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor, in
their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and
fashion, are all against him, he ought to be less liable to the
suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions in the
choice of his."

"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income
ready made, to the trouble of working for one: and has the
best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but
eat, drink, and grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram,
indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of all laudable
ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to take
the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen.
A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish;
read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his
wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his
own life is to dine."

" There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they
are not so common as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming
it their general character. I suspect that in this compre-
hensive and (may I say) commonplace censure, you are not
judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose
opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impos-
sible that your own observation can have given you much
knowledge of the clergy. You can have been personally
acquainted with very few of a set of men you condemn so
conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at
your uncle's table."

"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and
where an opinion is general, it is usually correct. Though /
have not seen much of the domestic lives of clergymen, it is
seen by too many to leave any deficiency of information."

" Where any one body of educated men, of whatever
denomination, are condemned indiscriminately, there must
be a deficiency of information, or (smiling) of something else.
Your uncle, and his brother admirals, perhaps knew little of
clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad, they
were always wishing away."

" Poor William ! He has met with great kindness from

the chaplain of the Antwerp/' was a tender apostrophe of
Fanny's^ very much to the purpose of her own feehngs if not
of the conversation.

I have been so httle addicted to take my opinions from
my uncle/' said Miss Crawford, that I can hardly suppose —
and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am not
entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are,
being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr.
Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging ta
me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a
good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons,
and is very respectable, I see him to be an indolent, selfish
bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in every-
thing; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any'
one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out
of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth,
Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a
disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get
the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it."

" I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word.
It is a great defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty
habit of self-indulgence; and to see your sister suffering
from it must be exceedingly painful to such feelings as yours.
Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend
Dr. Grant."

" No," replied Fanny, " but we need not give up his pro-
fession for all that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant

had chosen, he would have taken a not a good temper

into it; and as he must, either in the navy or army have had
a great many more people under his command than he has
now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him
as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot
but suppose that whatever there may be to wish otherwise in
Dr. Grant, would have been in a greater danger of becoming
worse in a more active and worldly profession, where he
would have had less time and obligation — where he might
have escaped that knowledge of himself, the frequency, at
least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should
escape as he is now. A man — a sensible man like Dr. Grant,
cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty every
week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach

3iA3iSFIELD PA%K

such very good sermons in so good a manner as he does,
without being the better for it himself. It must make him
think ; and I have no doubt that he of tener endeavours to
restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a
clergyman.''

" We cannot prove to the contrary^ to be sure; but I wish
you a better fate^ Miss Price^ than to be the wife of a man
whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons; for^
though he may preach himself into a good humour every
Sunday^ it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about
green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."

" I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny/'
said Edmund^ affectionately^ " must be beyond the reach of
any sermons."

Fanny turned farther into the window ; and Miss Crawford
had only time to say^ in a pleasant manner^ " I fancy Miss
Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it; "
when being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join
in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund
looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many
virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and
graceful tread.

" There goes good humour, I am sure," said he presently.
" There goes a temper which would never give pain! How
well she walks ! and how readily she falls in with the inclina-
tion of others ! joining them the moment she is asked. What
a pity," he added, after an instant's reflection, " that she
should have been in such hands ! "

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him
continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected
glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards
the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing,
and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night,
and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny
spoke her feelings. " Here's harmony I " said she; " here's
repose! Here's what may leave all painting and all music
behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe!
Here's what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart
to rapture ! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel
as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the
world; and there certainly would be less of both if the

3\dA3iSFIELlj

sublimity of Nature were more attended to^ a..
carried more out of themselves by contemplatkx^
scene."

" I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely
night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been
taught to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at
least, been given a taste for Nature in early life. They lose
a great deal."

" You taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin."
" I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very
bright."

Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia."
" We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be
afraid?"

" Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had
any star-gazing."

" Yes; I do not know how it has happened." The glee
began. " We will stay till this is finished, Fanny," said he,
turning his back on the window ; and as it advanced, she had
the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward
by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased,
he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in
requesting to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded awa^y by
Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold.

CH^PTE^XII

Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son
had duties to call him earlier home. The approach of Sep-
tember brought tidings of Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to
the gamekeeper and then in a letter to Edmund; and by the
end of August he arrived himself, to be gay, agreeable, and
gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford demanded ;
to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to
which she might have listened six weeks before with some
interest, and altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by
the power of actual comparison, of her preferring his younger
brother.

✓ exatious, and she was heartily sorry for it;
.^as; and so far from now meaning to marry the
, ane did not even want to attract him beyond what the
simplest claims of conscious beauty required : his lengthened
absence from Mansfield, without anything but pleasure in
view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear that
he did not care about her ; and his indifference was so much
more than equalled by her own, that were he now to step
forth the owner of Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete,
which he was to be in time, she did not believe she could
accept him.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to
Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham
could not do without him in the beginning of September.
He went for a fortnight — a fortnight of such dulness to the
Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their guard,
and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the
absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing
him not to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the
intervals of shooting and sleeping to have convinced the
gentleman that he ought to keep longer away, had he been
more in the habit of examining his own motives, and of
reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was tend-
ing; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad
example, he would not look beyond the present moment.
The sisters, handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an
amusement to his sated mind; and finding nothing in Norfolk
to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield, he gladly returned
to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither quite
as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with farther.

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and
doomed to the repeated details of his day's sport, good or
bad, his boast of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his
doubts of their qualifications, and his zeal after poachers,
subjects which will not find their way to female feelings
without some talent on one side or some attachment on the
other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, un-
engaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him
much more. Each sister believed herself the favourite.
Julia might be justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant,
inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria by the hints of

mA3<SFIELD FA%K 97

Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same
channel as before his absence; his manners being to each so
animated and agreeable as to lose no ground with either, and
just stopping short of the consistence, the steadiness, the
solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything
to dislike; but since the day at Sotherton, she could never
see Mr. Crawford with either sister without observation, and
seldom without wonder or censure; and had her confidence
in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it in every
other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly,
and judging candidly, she would probably have made some
important communications to her usual confidant. As it
was, however, she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was
lost. I am rather surprised," said she, " that Mr. Craw-
ford should come back again so soon, after being here so long
before, full seven weeks ; for I had understood he was so very
fond of change and moving about, that I thought something
would certainly occur when he was once gone, to take him
elsewhere. He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield."

" It is to his credit," was Edmund's answer; " and I dare
say it gives his sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled
habits."

" What a favourite he is with my cousins! "
Yes, his manners to women are such as must please.
Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia;
I have never seen much symptom of it, but I wish it may be
so. He has no faults but what a serious attachment would
remove."

" If Miss Bertram were not engaged," said Fanny, cau-
tiously, " I could sometimes almost think that he admired
her more than Julia."

Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia
best, than you, Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often
happens, that a man, before he has quite made up his own mind,
will distinguish the sister or intimate friend of the woman he
is really thinking of, more than the woman herself. Craw-
ford has too much sense to stay here if he found himself in
any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,
after such a proof as she has given, that her feelings are not
strong."

D

98

mAD^FIELD PA%K

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken^ and meant
to think differently in future; but with all that submission
to Edmund could do, and all the help of the coinciding looks
and hints which she occasionally noticed in some of the
others, and which seemed to say that Julia was Mr. Crawford's
choice, she knew not always what to think. She was privy,
one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject,
as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth,
on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering
as she listened; and glad would she have been not to be
obliged to listen, for it was while all the other young people
were dancing, and she sitting, most unwillingly, among the
chaperons at the fire, longing for the re-entrance of her elder
cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner then de-
pended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the pre-
paration or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being
the thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisi-
tion of a violin player in the servants' hall, and the possi-
bility of raising five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and
a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a
visit. It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny
through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing
even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, look-
ing now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue
between the two above-mentioned ladies was forced on her —

" I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris — her eyes directed
towards Mr. Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for
the second time, " we shall see some happy faces again now."

" Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the other, with a stately
simper, " there will be some satisfaction in looking on now,
and I think it was rather a pity they should have been obliged
to part. Young folks in their situation should be excused
complying with the common forms. I wonder my son did
not propose it."

" I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never
remiss. But dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety,
so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with
now-a-days, Mrs. Rushworth — that wish of avoiding particu-
larity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this moment;
how different from what it was the two last dances! "

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were spark-

MADiSFIELD PA%Ki

Img with pleasure, and she was speaking with gr^
tion, for Julia and her partner, Mr. Crawford, wert
her; they were all in a cluster together. How s.
looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she haa
dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about

Mrs. Norris continued, It is quite delightful, ma'am,
see young people so properly happy, so well suited, and s<.
much the thing! I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's
delight. And what do you say, ma'am, to the chance of
another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good example
and such things are very catching."

Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite
at a loss. The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no
symptoms there? "

Oh dear? Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed^
a very pretty match. What is his property? "

" Four thousand a-year."
Very well. Those who have not more, must be satisfied
with what they have. Four thousand a year is a pretty
estate, and he seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I
hope Miss Julia will be very happy."

It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of
it among friends. But I have very little doubt it will he.
He is growing extremely particular in his attentions."

Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering
were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the
room again; and though feehng it would be a great honour
to be asked by him, she thought it must happen. He came
towards their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance,
drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present
state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from
whom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to
be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that
she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When he had
told of his horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and
looking over it, said in a languid way, If you want to dance,
Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal
civility the offer was dechned; she did not wish to dance.

I am glad of it," said he, in a much brisker tone, and throw-
ing down the newspaper again, for I am tired to death. I
only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long.

MAdi^FlELD PA%K

xieed be all in love, to find any amusement in such
.d so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may
y are so many couple of lovers — all but Yates and Mrs.
o — and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want
/er as much as any one of them. A desperate dull life
.rs must be with the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke
.0 wards the chair of the latter, who proving, however, to be
close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of ex-
pression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of every-
thing, could hardly help laughing at. ''A strange business
this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I
always come to you to know what I am to think of public
matters."

My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, as you
are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection to join
us in a rubber; shall you? " Then leaving her seat, and
coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper,
We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know.
Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well
spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now,
you, and I, and Dr. Grant, will just do ; and though we play
but half-crowns, you know, you may bet half-guineas
with him.^^

I should be most happy," replied he aloud, and jumping
up with alacrity, it would give me the greatest pleasure;
but that I am this moment going to dance. Come, Fanny,"
taking her hand, do not be dav/dling any longer, or the
dance will be over."

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible
for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distin-
guish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another
person and his own.

" A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly
exclaimed as they walked away. To want to nail me to a
card table for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant,
who are always quarrelling, and that poking old woman, who
knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good
aunt would be a little less busy ! And to ask me in such a
way too ! without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me
no possibility of refusing. Tliai is what I dislike most parti-
cularly. It raises my spleen more than anything, to have the

{MA:KS FIELD PA%K loi

pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the
same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the
very thing, whatever it be ! If I had not luckily thought of
standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is a
great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in
her head, nothing can stop her."

CH^PTEI^XIII

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much
to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense,
and being the younger son of a lord with a tolerable inde-
pendence; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought
his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.
Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth,
where they had spent ten days together in the same society,
and the friendship, if friendship it might be called, had been
proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take
Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising
to come; and he did come rather earlier than had been ex-
pected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large
party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend,
which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings
of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had
been a theatrical party; and the play in which he had borne
a part, was within two days of representation, when the
sudden death of one of the nearest connections of the family
had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers.
To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long para-
graph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the
seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which
would of course have immortalised the whole party for at
least a twelvemonth ! and being so near, to lose it all, was an
injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing
else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and
dresses, rehearsals, and jokes, was his never-failing subject,
and to boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch

102 mAOiSFIELD PA1{K

for acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly
out-talk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of
the parts, to the epilogue, it was all bewitching, and there
were few vv^ho did not wish to have been a party concerned,
or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play had
been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count
Cassel. A trifling part," said he, " and not at all to my
taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again;
but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Raven-
shaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters
worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though
Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible
to ta-ke it, you know. I was sorry for him that he should
have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the
Baron — a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after
the first ten minutes. It must have injured the piece materi-
ally; but / was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry
thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because
Sir Henry wanted the part himself ; whereas it was certainly
in the best hands of the tw^o. I was surprised to see Sir
Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did
not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the
duke was thought very great by many. And upon the
whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully."

" It was a hard case, upon my word; " and, I do think
you were very much to be pitied," were the kind responses
of listening sympathy.

''It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the
poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and
it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been
suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but
three days ; and being only a grandmother, and all happening
two hundred miles off, I think there v/ould have been no
great harm, and it was suggested, I know ; but Lord Raven-
shaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in
England, would not hear of it."

An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram.

Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Raven-
shaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the
jointure may comfort him ; and, perhaps, between friends,
he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron,

MADiSFIELD PA%K 103

and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make you amends,
Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and
ask you to be our manager.

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with
the moment; for the inclination to act was awakened, and
in no one more strongly than in him who was now master of
the house; and who having so much leisure as to make
almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree
of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to
the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again.
" Oh, for the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something
with! " Each sister could echo the wish; and Henry Craw-
ford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was yet
an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. I really
believe," said he, ' \ could be fool enough at this moment
to undertake any character that ever was written, from
Shylock or Richard III. down to the singing hero of a farce
in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be
anything or everything ; as if I could rant and storm, or sigh,
or cut capers in any tragedy or comedy in the English lan-
guage. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play,
an act, a scene ; what should prevent us ? Not these counten-
ances, I am sure," looking towards the Miss Bertrams, " and
for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We shall be only
amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might sufiice."

" We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; " a few
yards of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that may be
enough."

Oh, quite enough! " cried Mr. Yates, with only just a
side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four
scenes to be let down; nothing more would be necessary on
such a plan as this. For mere amusement among ourselves,
we should want nothing more."

" I beheve we must be satisfied with less^' said Maria.
There would not be time, and other difficulties would arise.
We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views, and make the
performance, not the theatre, our object. Many parts of our
best plays are independent of scenery."

Nay,", said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm.
" Let us do nothing by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a
I theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and

104 J\dA3<SFIELD PA%K

let us have a play entire from beginning to end ; so as it be a
German play, no matter what, with a good tricking, shifting
afterpiece, and figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a song
between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do
nothing."

Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia.
Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have gone
much farther to see one."

True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but
I would hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the
raw efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade : a
set of gentlemen and ladies, who have all the disadvantages
of education and decorum to struggle through."

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued,
and was discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's
inclination increasing by the discussion, and a knowledge of
the inclination of the rest; and though nothing was settled
but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters
and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the
world could be easier than to find a piece which would please
them all, the resolution to act something or other seemed so
decided, as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was
determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who
equally heard the conversation which passed at table, did not
evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying
his strength. Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates,
were in the billiard-room. Tom returning from them into
the drawing-room, where Edmund was standing thoughtfully
by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a little
distance, and Fanny close beside her, arranging her work,
thus began as he entered —

Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not to be met
with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and
I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it
again ; but one good thing I have just ascertained : it is the
very room for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it ;
and the doors at the farther end, communicating with each
other, as they may be made to do in five minutes, by merely
moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very thing we
could have desired, if we had set down to wish for it ; and my

m/lHSFIELD PJ^ 105

father's room will be an excellent green room. It seems to
join the billiard-room on purpose."

You are not serious^ Tom, in meaning to act?'' said
Edmund, in a low voice, as his brother approached the fire.

Not serious ! never more so, I assure you. What is there
to surprise you in it? "

" I think it would be very wrong. In a general light,
private theatricals are open to some objections, but as we are
circumstanced, I must think it would be highly injudicious,
and more than injudicious, to attempt anything of the kind.
It would show great want of feeling on my father's account,
absent as he is, and in some degree of constant danger; and
it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose
situation is a very delicate one, considering everything,
extremely delicate."

You take up a thing so seriously ! as if we were going to
act three times a week till my father's return, and invite all
the country. But it is not to be a display of that sort. We
mean nothing but a little amusement among ourselves, just
to vary the scene, and exercise our powers in something new.
We want no audience, no publicity. We may be trusted, I
think, in choosing some play most perfectly unexceptionable ;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in
conversing in the elegant written language of some respect-
able author than in chattering in words of our own. I have
no fears, and no scruples. And as to my father's being
absent, it is so far from an objection, that I consider it
rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must
be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be
the means of amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits
for the next few weeks, I shall think out time very well spent,
and so, I am sure, will he. It is a very anxious period for her."

As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady
Bertram, sunk back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of
health, wealth, ease, and tranquillity, was just falling into a
gentle doze, while Fanny was getting through the few
difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.
By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself
into a chair with a hearty laugh. "To be sure, my dear
mother, your anxiety — I was unlucky there."

io6 3\4A3^FIELD PA%K

" What is the matter? asked her ladyship, in the heavy
tone of one half roused, I was not asleep.'*

Oh dear no, ma'am, nobody suspected youl Well,
Edmund," he continued, returning to the former subject,
posture, and voice, as soon as Lady Bertram began to nod
again, " but this I will maintain, that we shall be doing no
harm."

I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father
would totally disapprove it."

" And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder
of the exercise of talent in young people, or promotes it more,
than my father, and for anything of the acting, spouting, re-
citing kind, I think he has always a decided taste. I am sure
he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time have we
mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to he^d and
not to he^d, in this very room, for his amusement? And I
am sure, my name was Norval, every evening of my life
through one Christmas holidays."

" It was a very different thing. You must see the differ-
ence yourself. My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak
well, but he would never wish his grown-up daughters to be
acting plays. His sense of decorum is strict."

I know all that," said Tom, displeased. " I know my
father as well as you do; and I'll take care that his daughters
do nothing to distress him. Manage your own concerns,
Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of the family."

If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering
Edmund, " I must hope it will be in a very small and quiet
way ; and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted. It
would be taking liberties with my father's house in his
absence which could not be justified."

For every thing of that nature, I will be answerable,"
said Tom, in a decided tone. His house shall not be hurt.
I have quite as great an interest in being careful of his house
as you can have ; and as to such alterations as I was suggest-
ing just now, such as moving a bookcase, or unlocking a door;
or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a week
without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well
suppose he would object to our sitting more in this room, and
less in the breakfast-room, than we did before he went away,
or to my sister's pianoforte being moved from one side of
the room to the other. Absolute nonsense ! "

mAOiSFIELD PA%f 107

" The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be
wrong as an expense."

Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be pro-
digious! Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds.
Something of a theatre we must have undoubtedly, but it
will be on the simplest plan ; a green curtain and a little car-
penter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work
may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it
will be too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson
is employed, everything will be right with Sir Thomas.
Don't imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but
yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do not like it, but don't
expect to govern everybody else."

No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, " that I ab-
solutely protest against."

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund
was left to sit down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company
in every feeling throughout the whole, now ventured to say,
in her anxiety to suggest some comfort, " Perhaps they may
not be able to find any play to suit them. Your brother's
taste, and your sisters', seem very different."

" I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the
scheme, they will find something. I shall speak to my sisters
and try to dissuade them, and that is all I can do."

" I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."

" I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either
Tom or my sisters that could be of any use ; and if I cannot
convince them myself, I shall let things take their course,
without attempting it through her. Family squabbling is
the greatest evil of all, and we had better do anything than
be altogether by the ears."

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking
the next morning, were quite as impatient of his advice, quite
as unyielding to his representation, quite as determined in
the cause of pleasure, as Tom. Their mother had no objec-
tion to the plan, and they were not in the least afraid of their
father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in what
had been done in so many respectable families, and by so
many women of the first consideration; and it must be
scrupulousness run mad, that could see anything to censure

io8 mADiS FIELD ¥A%K

in a plan like theirs^ comprehending only brothers and sisterSj
and intimate friends^ and which would never be heard of
beyond themselves. Julia did seem inclined to admit that
Maria's situation might require particular caution and deli-
cacy— but that could not extend to her — she was at liberty;
and Maria evidently considered her engagement as only
raising her so much more above restraint^ and leaving her
less occasion than Julia^ to consult either father or mother.
Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the sub-
ject, when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the
Parsonage, calling out, " No want of hands in our theatre,
Miss Bertram. No want of understrappers; my sister
desires her love, and hopes to be admitted into the company,
and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna, or
tame confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves.*'

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, What say
you now? Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the
same? " And Edmund, silenced, was obliged to acknow-
ledge that the charm of acting might well carry fascination
to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to
dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the
message than on anything else.

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to
Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in supposing she would wish to
make any. She started no difficulties that were not talked
down in five minutes by her eldest nephew and niece, who
were all-powerful with her; and, as the whole arrangement
was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all
to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry,
bustle, and importance, and derived the immediate advan-
tage of fancying herself obliged to leave her own house, where
she had been living a month at her own cost, and take up
her abode in theirs, that every hour might be spent in their
service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the
project.

mJO^FIELD PA%K

CH^PTE^ XIV

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had sup-
posed. The business of finding a play that would suit every-
body proved to be no trifle; and the carpenter had received
his orders and taken his measurements, had suggested and
removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made
the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully
evident, was already at work, while a play was still to seek.
Other preparations were also in hand. An enormous roll of
green baize had arrived from Northampton, and been cut
out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good management,
of full three quarters of a yard), and was actually forming
into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was
wanting; and as two or three days passed away in this
manner, Edmund began almost to hope that none might
ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so
many people to be pleased, so many best characters required,
and above all, such a need that the play should be at once
both tragedy and comedy, that there did seem as little chance
of a decision as anything pursued by youth and zeal could
hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford
and Mr. Yates; on. the comic, Tom Bertram, not quite alone,
because it was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though
politely kept back, inclined the same way: but his deter-
minateness and his power seemed to make allies unnecessary ;
and, independent of this great irreconcileable difference, they
wanted a piece containing very few characters in the whole,
but every character first-rate, and three principal women.
All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet,
nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor the Gamester,
presented anything that could satisfy even the tragedians;
and the Rivals, the School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune,
Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively dismissed
with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed
that did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one

110 mADiSFIELD PA^I^K

side or the other it was a continual repetition of, " Oh no,
that will never do ! Let us have no ranting tragedies. Too
many characters. Not a tolerable woman's part in the play.
Anything but that, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to
fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a part.
Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. That might
do, perhaps, but for the low parts. If I must give my opinion,
I have always thought it the most insipid play in the English
language. / do not wish to make objections; I shall be
happy to be of any use, but I think we could not choose
worse."

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe
the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed to
govern them all, and wondering how it would end. For her
own gratification she could have wished that something
might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but
everything of higher consequence was against it.

" This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last. " We
are wasting time most abominably. Something must be
fixed on. No matter what, so that something is chosen.
We must not be so nice. A few characters too many must
not frighten us. We must double them. We must descend
a little. If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in
making anything of it. From this moment / make no
difficulties. I take any part you choose to give me, so as it
be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for nothing more."

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law,
doubting only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pang-
loss for himself; and very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully,
trying to persuade the others that there were some fine tragic
parts in the rest of the dramatis personse.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended
by the same speaker, who taking up one of the many volumes
of plays that lay on the table, and turning it over, suddenly
exclaimed, — " Lovers' Vows I And why should not Lovers'
Vows do for us as well as for the Ravenshaws? How came
it never to be thought of before ? It strikes me as if it would
do exactly. What say you all ? Here are two capital tragic
parts for Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler
for me, if nobody else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort
of thing I should not dislike, and, as I said before, I am

FIELD PA%K

determined to take anything and do my best. And as for
the rest^ they may be filled up by anybody. It is only
Count Cassel and Anhalt."

The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was
growing weary of indecision, and the first idea with every-
body was, that nothing had been proposed before so likely to
suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly pleased: he had
been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford, had
grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's and been forced to
re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron
[Wildenheim] was the height of his theatrical ambition; and
with the advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart
already, he did now with the greatest alacrity, ojffer his ser-
vices for the part. To do him justice, however, he did not
resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was
some very good ranting ground in Frederick, he professed an
equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to
take either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not choose would per-
fectly satisfy him, and a short parley of compliment ensued.
Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an Agatha in the
question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates,
that this was a point in which height and figure ought to be
considered, and that his being the tallest, seeemed to fit him
peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite
right, and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was
certain of the proper Frederick. Three of the characters
were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who was always
answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when
Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be
scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.

This is not behaving well by the absent," said she.
" Here are not women enough. Ainelia and Agatha may do
for Maria and me, but here is nothing for your sister, Mr
Crawford.*'

Mr. Crawford desired that might not be thought of: he
was very sure his sister had no wish of acting, but as she
might be useful, and that she would not allow herself to be
considered in the present case. But this was immediately
opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia
to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she
would accept it. " It falls as naturally, as necessarily to

112

3^A3<SFIELD PA%K

her/' said he, as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters.
It can be no sacrifice on their side^ for it is highly comic."

A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious;
for each felt the best claim vo Agatha, and was hoping to have
it pressed on her by the re^t. Henry Crawford, who mean-
while had taken up the play, and with seeming carelessness
was turning over the first act. soon settled the business.

" I must entreat Miss Julia Bertram," said he, not to
engage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my
solemnity. You must not, indeed you must not (turning to
her). I could not stand your countenance dressed up in woe
and paleness. The many laughs we have had together would
infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack
would be obliged to run away."

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner
was lost in the matter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance
at Maria, which confirmed the injury to herself: it was a
scheme, a trick ; she was slighted, Maria was preferred ; the
smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress showed
how well it was understood ; and before Julia could command
herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against
her too, by saying, Oh yes ! Maria must be Agatha. Maria
will be the best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers
tragedy, I would not trust her in it. There is nothing of
tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her features
are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks
too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had
better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you
had, indeed, JuUa. Cottager's wife is a very pretty part, I
assure you. The old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence
of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You shall be
Cottager's wife."

''Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. ''What are you
talking of ? The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part ; the
merest commonplace; not a tolerable speech in the whole.
Your sister do that! It is an insult to propose it. At
Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We all agreed
that it could not be offered to anybody else. A Httle more
justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the
oflnice, if you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a
Httle better."

mA3<^FIELD PA%K

" Why as to that, my good friend, till I and my company
have really acted there must be some guess-work; but I
mean no disparagement to Julia. We cannot have two
Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's wife; and I am
sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being
satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will
have more credit in maidng something of it; and if she is so
desperately bent against everything humorous, let her take
Cottager's speeches instead of Cottager's wife's, and so change
the parts all through; he is solemn and pathetic enough, I am
sure. It could make no difference in the play, and as for
Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, I
would undertake him with all my heart."

With all your partiality for Cottager's wife," said Henry
Crawford, it will be impossible to make anything of it fit
for your sister, and we must not suffer her good nature to be
imposed on. We must not allow her to accept the part. She
must not be left to her own complaisance. Her talents will
be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more difficult
to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Ameha
is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires
great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and sim-
plicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses
fail in the part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of
almost every actress by profession. It requires a delicacy
of feeHng which they have not. It requires a gentlewoman
— a Juha Bertram. You will undertake it, I hope ? " turning
to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a
little ; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again
interposed with Miss Crawford's better claim.

No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the
part for her. She would not like it. She would not do well.
She is too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light,
girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss
Crawford only. She looks the part, and I am persuaded will
do it admirably."

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his
supplication. You must oblige us," said he, " indeed you
must. When you have studied the character, I am sure you
will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will
certainly appear that comedy chooses you. You will be to

114

visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not
refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in
with your basket?

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but
was he only trying to soothe and pacify her^ and make her
overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. The
slight had been most determined. He was, perhaps, but at
treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her
sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it; if she were
vexed and alarmed — but Maria looked all serenity and satis-
faction, and Julia well knew that on this ground Maria could
not be happy but at her expense. With hasty indignation,
therefore, and a tremulous voice, she said to him, You do
not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I
come in with a basket of provisions — though one might have
supposed— but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so over-
powering!" She stopped, Henry Crawford looked rather
foolish, and as if he did not know what to say. Tom Bertram
began again —

" Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent
Amelia."

Do not be afraid of my wanting the character," cried
Julia, with angry quickness: " I am not to be Agatha, and
I am sure I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of
all parts in the world the most disgusting to me. I quite
detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl.
I have always protested against comedy, and this is comedy
in its worst form." And so saying, she walked hastily out of
the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but
exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had
been a quiet auditor of the whole, and who could not think of
her as under the agitations of jealousy without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her
brother soon returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was
eagerly looking over the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascer-
tain what scenery would be necessary, while Maria and
Henry Crawford conversed together in an under voice, and
the declaration with which she began of, I am sure I would
give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I
shall probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded she would do
it worse," was doubtless receiving all the compliments it
called for.

mAHSFIELD FA%K 115

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party
\ was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off
together to consult farther in the room now beginning to be
called the Theatre, and Miss Bertram's resolving to go down
to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia to Miss
Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the
volume which had been left on the table, and begin to
acquaint herself with the play of which she had heard so
much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran through it
with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of
astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance,
that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre !
Agatha and Amelia appeared to her in their different ways
so totally improper for home representation ; the situation of
one, and the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed
by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly suppose
her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in;
and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the
remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.

CH^iPTE'F^XV

Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon
after Miss Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rush-
worth arrived, and another character was consequently cast.
He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and at first did
not know which to choose, and wanted Miss Bertram to
direct him; but upon being made to understand the different
style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting
that he had once seen the play in London, and had thought
Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count.
Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the less he had to
learn the better; and though she could not sympathise in his
wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act together,
nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the
leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very
kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that

ii6 mAO^SFIELD PA1{K

admitted being shortened ; besides pointing out the necessity
of his being very much dressed, and choosing liis colours.
Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, though
affecting to despise it; and was too much engaged with what
his own appearance would be, to think of the others, or draw
any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure
which Maria had been half prepared for.

Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out
all the morning, knew anything of the matter; but when he
entered the drawing-room before dinner, the buz of discussion
was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates ; and Mr. Rush-
worth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him the
agreeable news.

We have got a play,'' said he. " It is to be Lovers'
Vows ; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first
with a blue dress, and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am
to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress.
I do not know how I shall like it."

Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for
him as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt what
his sensations must be.

" Lovers' Vows ! " in a tone of the greatest amazement,
was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards
his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction.

" Yes," cried Mr. Yates. " After all our debatings and
difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether
so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The
wonder is, that it should not have been thought of before.
My stupidity was abomxinable, for here we have all the advan-
tage of what I saw at Ecclesford ; and it is so useful to have
anything of a model! We have cast almost every part."

" But what do you do for women? " said Edmund gravely,
and looking at Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, ^' I take
the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and
(with a bolder eye) Miss Crawford is to be Amelia."

" I should not have though^, it the sort of play to be so
easily filled up, with «5," replied Edmund, turning away to
the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating
himself with a look of great vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, I come in three

MA^KSPIELD PA%K 117

timeS; and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something,
is not it? But I do not much Hke the idea of being so fine.
I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress, and a pink satin
cloak.''

Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr.
Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of
the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and
followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost
immediately took the opportunity of saying, I cannot before
Mr. Yates speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting
on his friends at Ecclesf ord ; but I must now, my dear Maria,
tell you, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private repre-
sentation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but
suppose you will when you have read it carefully over.
Read only the first act aloud to either your m.other or aunt,
and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to
send you to your father's judgment, I am convinced."

We see things very differently," cried Maria. I am
perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with
a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of
course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and / am not
the only young woman you find, who thinks it very fit for
private representation."

" I am sorry for it," was his answer; but in this matter
it is you who are to lead. You must set the example. If
others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and
show them what true delicacy is. In aU points of decorum,
your conduct must be law to the rest of the party."

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no
one loved better to lead than Maria ; a,nd with far more good
humour she answered, ^' I am much obliged to you, Edmund;
you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see
things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to
harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. There
would be the greatest indecorum, I think."

" Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my
head? No: let your conduct be the only harangue. Say
that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it;
that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than
you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it
will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will under-

ii8 mA3^S FIELD PA%K

stand your motive. The play will be given up, and your
delicacy honoured as it ought/*

" Do not act anything improper^ my dear/' said Lady
Bertram. Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the
bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure Julia is dressed by
this time.''

"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing
Fanny, that Sir Thomas would not like it."

There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says.^ "

" If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed
zeal, " Julia would certainly take it."

" What! " cried Edmund, " if she knew your reasons! "

"Oh! she might think the difference between us — the
difference in our situations — that she need not be so scrupulous
as / might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so.
No: you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it
is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom
would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall
never act anything."

" I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs.
Norris. If every play is to be objected to, you will act
nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money
thrown away, and I am sure that would be a discredit to us
all. I do not know the play : but, as Maria says, if there is
anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them)
it can be easily left out. We must not be over precise,
Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no
harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the
carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work
about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job,
however. The maids do their work very well, and I think
we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings.
There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I
am of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the
most of things. There should always be one steady head to
superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of
something that happened to me this very day. I had been
looking about me in the poultry yard, and was just coming
out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to
the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand,
bringing them to father, you may be sure ; mother ha 1

^JJiSFIELD PA'FJC 119

chanced to send him of a message to father^ and then father
had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could
not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant,
for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment
over our heads ; and.^as I hate such encroaching people (the
Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just
the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy**
directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know,
who ought to be ashamed of himself); ' Fll take the boards
to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you
can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without
offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp;
and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about
the house for one while. I hate such greediness ; so good as
your father is to the family, employing the man all the year
round!"

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon
returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to
set them right must be his only satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her
triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation
were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation
was felt even by his brother, though he would not have owned
it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating support,
thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was
trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom
less impenetrable on any topic than that of his regret at her
secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having
only his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon
talked away all that could be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for
an hour or two: there was still a great deal to be settled;
and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria,
and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled in the
drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a separate
table, with the play open before them, and were just getting
deep in the subject, when a most welcome interruption was
given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late
and dark, and dirty as it was, could not help coming, and
were received with the most grateful joy.

Well, how do you go on?" and ''What have you

MAOiSFIELD PA%K

settled? " and Oh I we can do nothing without you/* fol-
lowed the first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon
seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made
her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was
complimenting her, I must really congratulate your lady-
ship/' said she, on the play being chosen; for though you
have borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must
be sick of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may be
glad, but the by-standers must be infinitely more thankful
for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as
well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same
predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slily, beyond
Fanny to Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but
Edmund said nothing. His being only a by-stander was not
disclaimed. After continuing in chat with the party round
the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party
round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest
herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden
recollection, she exclaimed, My good friends, you are most
composedly at work upon these cottages and ale-houses,
inside and out; [but pray, let me know my fate in the mean-
while. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman among you
am I to have the pleasure of making love to.^ ''

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke to-
gether to tell the same melancholy truth, that they had not
yet got any Anhalt. Mr. Rushworth was to be Count
Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt."

I had my choice of the parts," said Mr. Rushworth; but
I thought I should like the Count best, though I do not much
relish the finery I am to have."

You chose very wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford,
with a brightened look; Anhalt is a heavy part."

The Count has two-and-forty speeches," returned Mr.
Rushworth, which is no trifle."

I am not at all surprised," said Miss Crawford, after a
short pause, at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves
no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten
the men."

I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were
possible," cried Tom; but, unluckily, the Butler and

^J3^FIELD PA%K 121

Anhalt are in together. I will not entirely give it up, how-
ever; I will try what can be done — I will look it over
again."

Your brother should take the part/' said Mr. Yates, in a
low voice. Do you not think he would? "

I shall not ask him/' replied Tom, in a cold, determined
manner.

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon after-
wards rejoined the party at the fire.

They do not want me at all," said she, seating herself.
" I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil speeches.
Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will
be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore, I apply to you.
What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it practicable for any
of the others to double it? What is your advice? "

My advice," said he calmly, is that you change the
play."

" / should have no objection," she replied; for though
I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia, if well
supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry
to be an inconvenience; but as they do not choose to hear
your advice at that table (looking round), it certainly will not
be taken."

Edmund said no more.

" If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it would
be Anhalt," obser\*ed the lady archly, after a short pause;

for he is a clergyman, you know."

That circumstance would by no means tempt me," he
replied, for I should be sorry to make the character ridicu-
lous by bad acting. It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt
from appearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who
chooses the profession itself, is, perhaps, one of the last who
would wish to represent it on the stage."

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of
resentment and mortification, moved her chair considerably
nearer the tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris,
who was presiding there.

Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where
the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation
incessant, we want your services." \

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for /

122 r^JO^FIELD PA%K

the habit of employing her in that v>^ay was not yet overcome,
in spite of all that Edmund could do.

Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We
do not want your present services. We shall only want you
in our play. You must be Cottager's wife.''

''Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most
frightened look. Indeed you must excuse me. I could
not act anything if you were to give me the world. No,
indeed, I cannot act."

Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It
need not frighten you; it is a nothing of a part, a mere
nothing, not above half-a-dozen speeches altogether, and it
will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say, so you
may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you
to look at."

" If you are afraid of half-a-dozen speeches," cried Mr.
Rushworth, what would you do with such a part as mine?
I have forty-two to learn."

It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said
Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only
speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was
upon her; but I really cannot act."

Yes, yes, you can act well enough for us. Learn your
part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two
scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push
you about, and you will do it very well, I'll answer for it."

No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You
/ cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for
me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you."
\ Phoo ! Phoo ! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it
^''very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do
not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a
white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few
wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your
eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."

You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," cried
Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation,
and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observ-
ing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by inter-
ference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty
had no effect on Tom ; he only said again what he had said

3IA3^FIELD PA1{K 123

before^ and it was not merely Tom^ for the requisition was
now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford^ and Mr. Yates, with
an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle
or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite over-
powering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it,
Mrs. Norris completed the whole, by thus addressing her in
a whisper at once angry and audible: — What a piece of
work here is about nothing, I am quite ashamed of you,
Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in
a trifle of this sort — so kind as they are to you ! Take the
part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter,
I entreat.

Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. ''It is not
fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like to
act. Let her choose for herself, as well as the rest of us.
Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge
her any more."

I am not going to urge her," repKed Mrs. Norris sharply;
" but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if
she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her; very
ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is."

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford look-
ing for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and
then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to show them-
selves, immediately said, with some keenness, '' I do not like
my situation; this place is too hot for me," and moved away
her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny,
saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself,
'' Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening;
everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them ; "
and with pointed attention continued to talk to her and
endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits
herself. By a look at her brother, she prevented any farther
entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good
feelings by which she was almost purely governed, were
rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund's
favour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much
obliged to her for her present kindness; and when, from
taking notice of her work, and wishing she could work as well,
and begging for the pattern, and supposing Fanny was now

124 mA^KSFIELD PA'IiK

preparing for her appearance, as of course she would come out
when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to
inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and
said that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined
him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his
picture drawn before he went to sea again, — she could not
help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or help listen-
ing, and answering with more animation than she had
intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss
Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny, by Tom
Bertram's telling her, with infinite regret, that he found it
absolutely impossible for him to undertake the part of Anhalt
in addition to the butler : he had been most anxiously trying
to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do; he must
give it up. " But there will not be the smallest difficulty in
filling it/' he added. We have but to speak the word; we
may pick and choose. I could name, at this moment, at
least six young men within six miles of us, who are wild to be
admitted into our company, and there are one or two that
would not disgrace us ; I should not be afraid to trust either
of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very
clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man
as you will see anywhere, so I will take my horse early
to-morrow morning, and ride over to Stoke, and settle with
one of them."

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round
at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an
enlargement of the plan as this : so contrary to all their first
protestations; but Edmund said nothing. After a moment's
thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, " As far as I am
concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all
tliink eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen?
Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister's one day, did
not he, Henr}'-? A quiet looking young man. I remember
him. Let him be applied to, if you please, for it will be less
unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger."

Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his
resolution of going to him early on the morrow; and though
Julia, who had scarcely opened her lips before, observed in a
sarcastic manner, and with a glance first at Maria, and then

at Edmund, that the Mansfield theatricals would enliven
the whole neighbourhood exceedingly/' Edmund still held
his peace, and showed his feelings only by a determined
gravity.

I am not very sanguine as to our play/' said Miss
Crawford, in an under voice to Fanny, after some considera-
tion; and I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some
of his speeches, and a great many of my own, before we
rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable, and by no
means what I expected."

CH^PTE%^XVI

It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any
real forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening
was over, she went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated
by the shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom, so
public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinking under
her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called
into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the
prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she
must do what was so impossible as to act ; and then to have
the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced
with such a hint at the dependence of her situation, had been
too distressing at the time to make the remembrance when
she was alone much less so, especially with the superadded
dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of
the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the
time ; and if she were applied to again among themselves with
all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were
capable of, and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do ?
She fell asleep before she could answer the question, and
found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning.
The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping room
ever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent
to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was
dressed, to another apartment more spacious and more meet
for \^alking about in and thinking, and of which she had now

126 mAO^FIELb PA%K

for some time been almost equally mistress. It had been
their schoolroom ; so called till the Miss Bertrams would not
allow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to
a later period. There Miss Lee had lived, and there they
had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within the
last three years, when she had quitted them. The room had
then become useless, and for some time was quite deserted,
except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, or wanted one
of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the
deficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber
above: but gradually, as her value for the comforts of it
increased, she had added to her possessions, and spent more
of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had
so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it
was now generally admitted to be her's. The East room, as
it had been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was
now considered Fanny's, almost as decidedly as the white
attic: the smallness of the one making the use of the other
so evidently reasonable, that the Miss Bertrams, with every
superiority in their own apartments, which their own sense
of superiority could demand, were entirely appro\dng it; and
Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in
it on Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having
the use of what nobody else wanted, though the terms in
which she sometimes spoke of the indulgence seemed to
imply that it was the best room in the house.

The aspect was so favourable, that even without a fire it
was habitable in many an early spring and late autumn
morning, to such a willing mind as Fanny's; and while there
was a gleam of sunshine, she hoped not to be driven from it
entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in her
hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after
anything unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation
in some pursuit, or some train of thought at hand. Her
plants, her books — of which she had been a collector from
the first hour of her commanding a shilling — her writing-desk,
and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within her
reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but
musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that
room which had not an interesting remembrance connected
with it. Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to

3\4A3iSFIELD PA%K 127

a friend; and though there had been sometimes much of
suffering to her; though her motives had often been mis-
understood^ her feelings disregarded^ and her comprehension
undervalued; though she had known the pains of tyranny^
of ridicule^ and neglect; yet almost every recurrence of
either had led to something consolatory; her aunt Bertram
had spoken for her^ or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or,
what was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been^
her champion and her friend ; he had supported her cause or^
explained her meaning; he had told her not to cry, or had
given her some proof of affection which made her tears
delightful, and the whole was now so blended together, so
harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its
charm. The room was most dear to her, and she would not
have changed its furniture for the handsomest in the house,
though what had been originally plain, had suffered all the
ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies and orna-
ments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done
for the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage
for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window,
where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy
and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family
profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, over the
mantel-piece, and by their side, and pinned against the wall^
a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediter-
ranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in
letters as tall as the main-mast.

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its
influence on an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking
at Edmund's profile she could catch any of his counsel, or
by giving air to her geraniums she might inhale a breeze of
mental strength herself. But she had more than fears of her
own perseverance to remove : she had begun to feel undecided
as to what she ought to do ; and as she walked round the room
her doubts were increasing. Was she right in refusing what
was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for — what might be
so essential to a scheme on which some of those to whom she
owed the greatest complaisance had set their hearts? Was
it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself?
And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of
Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough ta

128 3\4A3^FIELD PA%K

justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest?
It would be so horrible to her to act^ that she was inclined to
suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples ; and as she
looked around her, the claims of her cousins to being obliged
were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that
she had received from them. The table between the windows
was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had
been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and
she grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all
these kind remembrances produced. A tap at the door
roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her
duty, and her gentle come in " was answered by the appear-
ance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont to be laid.
Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.

" Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes? said
he.

" Yes, certainly."
I want to consult. I want your opinion."

" My opinion! " she cried, shrinking from such a compli-
ment, highly as it gratified her.

" Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do.
This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They
have chosen almost as bad a play as they could, and now,
to complete the business, are going to ask the help of a young
man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all
the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.
I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive
intimacy which must spring from his beng admitted among
us in this manner is highly objectionable, the more than
intimacy — the familiarity. I cannot think of it with any
patience ; and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude
as must, if possible, be prevented. Do not you see it in the
same light .^^ "

^*Yes; but what can be done.^ Your brother is so
determined? "

There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I must take
Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will quiet
Tom."

Fanny could not answer him.
It is not at all what I like," he continued. " No man
can like being driven into the appearance of such incon-

{MANSFIELD PA%K 129

sistency. After being known to oppose the scheme from the
beginning, there is absurdity in the face of my joining them
now J when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect;
but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?

No/' said Fanny slowly, " not immediately, but "

But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think
it a httle over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am
of the mischief that way, of the unpleasantness that must
arise from a young man's being received in this manner;
domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours,
and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away
all restraints. To think only of the license which every
rehearsal must tend to create. It is all very bad! Put
yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider what it
would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to
be felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard
enough of what she said to you last night, to understand her
unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she
probably engaged in the part with different expectations —
perhaps without considering the subject enough to know
what was likely to be — it would be ungenerous, it would be
really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be
respected. Does it not strike you so, Fanny ? You hesitate."

I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to
see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and
what you are known to think will be disagreeable to my
uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others ! "

" They will not have much cause of triumph when they
see how infamously I act. But, however, triumph there
certainly will be, and I must brave it. But if I can be the
means of restraining the publicity of the business, of limiting
the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well repaid.
As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have
offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have
put them in good humour by this concession, I am not
without hopes of persuadmg them to confine the representa-
tion within a much smaller circle than they are now in the
high road for. This will be a material gain. My object is to
confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this
be worth gaining? "

Yes, it will be a great point."

" But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention
any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal
good?''

" No, I cannot think of anything else.''
" Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not
comfortable without it."
^'Oh, cousin!"

" If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and

yet . But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on

in this way, riding about the country in quest of anybody
who can be persuaded to act — no matter whom : the look of
a gentleman is to be enough. I thought you would have
entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."

" No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great
relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of
manner.

She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour
to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my
good-will."

" She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her
spared "

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience
stopt her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he,

and am sure of giving pleasure there. And now, dear
Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to
be reading. But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you,
and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has
'been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am.
certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I
shall go to him directly and get it over, and when we meet
at breakfast we shall be all in high good humour at the
prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity.
You in the meanwhile v/ill be taking a trip into China, I
suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on? (opening a
volume on the table and then taking up some others.) And
here are Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, at hand to relieve you,
if you tire of your great book. I admire your little establish-
ment exceedingly ; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty
your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit comfortably
down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold."

mAV^SFIELD PA%K 131

He went ; but there was no reading, no China, no com-
posure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary,
the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news; and she
could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all his
objections — objections so just and so pubhc! After all that
she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him
to be feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so incon-
sistent! Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not
wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had
seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The'
doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had
previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she
listened to him, were become of little consequence now.
This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take
their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins
might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond
their reach; and if at last obliged to yield — no matter — it
vvas all misery now.

CH^PTE^ XVII

It was, indeed, a trimphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria.
Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond
their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer
anything to disturb them in their darling project, and they
congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness
to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of
feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look
grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and
must disapprove the play in particular; their point was
gained ; he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of
selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that
moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they
were both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to him on the occasion,
betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the comers of
the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be
quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been

132 ^A3<^FIELD PAT{K

forced into admitting him against their inclination. '* To
have it quite in their own family circle was what they had
particularly wished. A stranger among them would have
been the destruction of all their comfort; " and when Edmund,
pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limita-
tion of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of
the moment, to promise anything. It was all good humour
and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his
dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with
the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and
Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches.

Perhaps,'' said Tom, " Fanny may be more disposed to
oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade her^

No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.''

" Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but
Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to
the danger was beginning to fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the
Park on this change in Edmund ; Miss Crawford looked very
lovely in her's, and entered with such an instantaneous
renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair, as could have
but one effect on him. " He was certainly right in respecting
such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And
the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not
very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny; at
the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with
her usual good humour, agreed to undertake the part for
which Fanny had been wanted ; and this was all that occurred
to gladden her heart during the day; and even this, when
imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss
Crawford to whom she was obliged; it was Miss Crawford
whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose
meiit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admira-
tion. She was safe ; but peace and safety were unconnected
here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She
could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment
were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not
acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her
wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Iviiss
Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult,

MA^KSFIELD PA%K 133

with friendly expressions towards herself which she could
hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and
busy^ prosperous and important; each had their object of
interest^ their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their
friends and confederates: all were finding employment in
consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful
conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant ;
she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she
might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the
solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed.
She could almost think anything would have been preferable
to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: her good nature
had honourable mention: her taste and her time were con-
sidered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for and
attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger
of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflec-
tion brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant
was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to
her ; and that, had she received even the greatest, she could
never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering
only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.
' Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one
amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself.
Julia was a sufferer, too, though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had
very long allowed, and even sought his attentions with a
jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to have been
their cure ; and now that the conviction of his preference for
Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without
any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational
tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence,
wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity
touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates,
was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing
the acting of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given Henry Craw-
ford had endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of
gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared enough
about it to persevere against a few repulses; and becoming
soon too busy with his play to have time for more than one
flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather thought

134 mJHSFIELD PA%K

it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what
might ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs.
Grant. She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the
play, and sitting by disregarded ; but as it was not a matter
which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the
best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a most
persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a
serious thought of each other, she could only renew her former
caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his
tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly
take her share in anything that brought cheerfulness to the
young people in general, and that did so particularly promote
the pleasure of the two so dear to her.

I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,'' was her
observation to Mary.

I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. I imagine both
sisters are."

Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a
hint of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth! "

You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rush-
worth. It may do her some good. I often think of Mr.
Rushworth's property and independence, and wish them in
other hands; but I never think of him, A man might
represent the county with such an estate; a man might
escape a profession and represent the county."

I dare say he will be in parliament soon. W\itn Sir
Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some borough,
but there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing
anything yet."

" Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he
comes home," said Mary, after a pause. Do you remember
Hawkins Browne's ' Address to Tobacco,' in imitation of
Pope?—

' Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.'

I will parody them —

Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant Everything seems to depend
upon Sir Thomas's return."

3IJ0iSFIELD PA%K 135

" You will find his consequence very just and reasonable
when you see him in his family, I assure you. I do not think
we do so well without him. He has a fine dignified manner,
which suits the head of such a house, and keeps everybody
in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cypher now
than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs.
Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram
cares for Henry. I am sure Julia does not, or she would not
have flirted as she did last night with Mr. Yates ; and though
he and Maria are very good friends, I think she likes Sotherton
too well to be inconstant.''

" I would not give much for Mr. Rush worth's chance, if
Henry stept in before the articles were signed.''

" If you have such a suspicion, something must be done;
and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him seri-
ously, and make him know his own mind; and if he means
nothing, we will send him off, though he is Henry, for a time."

Julia did suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it
not, and though it escaped the notice of many of her own
family likewise. She had loved, she did love still, and she
had all the suffering which a warm temper and a high spirit
were likely to endure under the disappointment of a dear,
though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage. Her
heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry
consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on
easy terms was now become her greatest enemy: they were
aliena^ted from each other; and Julia was not superior to the
hope of some distressing end to the attentions which were still
carrying on there, some punishment to Maria for conduct so
shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth.
With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion, to
prevent their being very good friends while their interests
were the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not
affection or principle enough to make them merciful or just,
to give them honour or compassion. Maria felt her triumph,
and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia; and Julia could
never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford without
trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public
disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia ; but there was
no outward fellowship between them. Julia made no com-

136 31A3^FIELD PA%K

munication, and Fanny took no liberties. They were two
solitary sufferers^ or connected only by Fanny's consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's
discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be
imputed to the fulness of their own minds. They were
totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by the concerns of
his theatre, and saw nothing that did not immediately relate
to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real part —
between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct — be-
tween love and consistency, was equally unobservant; and
Mrs. Norris was too busy in contriving and directing the
general little matters of the company, superintending their
various dresses with economical expedient, for which nobody
thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half-a-
crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have
leisure for watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness
of his daughters.

Everything was now in a regular train; theatre, actors,
actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward ; but though
no other great impediments arose, Fanny found, before many
days were past, that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment
to the party themselves, and that she had not to witness the
continuance of S'ach unanimity and delight, as had been
almost too much for her at first. Everybody began to have
their vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against his
judgment, a scene-painter arrived from town, and was at
work, much to the increase of the expenses, and, what was
worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and his brother,
instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of the
representation, was giving an invitation to every family who
came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-
painter's slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting.
He had learned his part — all his parts, for he took every
trifling one that could be united with the butler, and began to
be impatient to be acting; and every day thus unemployed

JklJO^FIELD PA%K 137

was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance of all
his parts together, and make him more ready to regret that
some other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often
the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the
distresses of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in
general thought to rant dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was dis-
appointed in Henry Crawford ; that Tom Bertram spoke so
quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant spoiled
everything by laughing; that Edmund was behind-hand
with his part, and that it was a misery to have anything to
do with Mr. Rush worth, who was wanting a prompter through
every speech. She knew, also, that poor Mr. Rushworth
could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: his com-
plaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to
her eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so
needlessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between her
and Mr. Crawford, that she had soon all the terror of other
complaints from him, V/ So far from being all satisfied and all
enjoying, she found everybody requiring something they had
not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Every-
body had a part either too long or too short; nobody would
attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which
side they w^ere to come in ; nobody but the complainer would
observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoy-
ment from the play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted
well, and it was a pleasure to her to creep into the theatre,
and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in spite of the feel-
ings it excited in some speeches for Maria. Maria, she also
thought, acted well, too well; and after the first rehearsal or
two, Fanny began to be their only audience, and sometimes
as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful.
As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the
best actor of all; he had more confidence than Edmund,
' more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste than Mr.
Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit
him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not
many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed
against his tameness and insipidity; and the day came at
last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her with a black look,

138 3iA:K§FIELD PA1{K

and said, " Do you think there is anything so very fine in all
this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and
between ourselves, to see such an undersized, little, mean-
looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my
opinion."

From this moment there was a return of his former
jealousy, which Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford,
was at little pains to remove, and the chances of Mr. Rush-
worth's ever attaining to the knowledge of his two-and-forty
speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything
tolerable of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except
his mother; she, indeed, regretted that his part was not more
considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they
were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his
scenes ; but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remem-
bering the catch-word, and the first line of his speech, and
being able to follow the prompter through the rest. Fanny,
in her pity and kind-heartedness, was at great pains to teach
him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in
her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and
learning every word of his part herself, but without his being
much the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she
certainly had; but with all these, and other claims on
her time and attention, she was as far from finding herself
without employment or utility amongst them, as without a
companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no
demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of
her first anticipations was proved to have been unfounded.
She was occasionally useful to all; she was perhaps as
much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover,
in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought
her quite as well off as the rest, was evident by the manner
in which she claimed it: — Come, Fanny," she cried, these
are fine times for you, but you must not be always walking
from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at
your ease, in this way ; I want you here. I have been slaving
myself till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's
cloak without sending for any more satin; and now I think
you may give me your help in putting it together. There are

mA3<^FIELD PJ^ 139

but three seams^ you may do them in a trice. It would be
lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do.
You are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than
you J we should not get on very fast."

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting
any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her
behalf —

" One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should be de-
lighted; it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to
be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as
soon as I am a Uttle more at leisure, I mean to look in at
their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny, you
have never told me?

"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not
one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It is
about Lovers' Vows."

" I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, " there will
be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will
give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once."

" You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed
Mrs. Norris; " the curtain will be hung in a day or two —
there is very little sense in a play without a curtain — and I
am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very
handsome festoons."

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny
did not share her aunt's composure; she thought of the
morrow a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed,
Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together
for the first time ; the third act would bring a scene between
them which interested her most particularly, and which she
was longing and dreading to see how they would perform.
The whole subject of it was love — a marriage of love was to
be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a
declaration of love be made by the lady.

She had read, and read the scene again with many painful,
many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their
representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting.
She did not believe they had yet rehearsed it, even in private.

Hie morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and
Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated.
She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions,

140 OdADiSFIELD PAT{K

but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent,
anxious mind ; and about noon she made her escape with her
work to the East room^ that she might have no concern in
another^ and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal
of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing,
desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoid-
ing the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed
through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the
Parsonage, made no change in her wish of retreat, and she
worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a
quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was
followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.

"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear
Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to
you on purpose to entreat your help.''

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to show herself
mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the
bright bars of her empty grate with concern.

" Thank you; 1 am quite warm, very warm. Allow
me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to
hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you
would but rehearse it with me, I should be so obliged! I
came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund — by
ourselves — against the evening, but he is not in the way;
and if he were, I do not think I could go through it with him,
till I have hardened myself a little; for really there is a
speech or two . You will be so good, won't you? "

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could
not give them in a very steady voice.

" Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean? "
continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. " Here it is.

I did not think much of it at first — but, upon my word .

There, look at that speech, and that, and that. How am I ever
to look him in the face and say such things ? Could you do
it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the differ-
ence. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy you him,
and get on by degrees. You have a look of his sometimes."

" Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness;
but I must read the part, for I can say very little of it."

" None of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of
course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for

mAJiSFIELD PA%K 141

you to bring forward to the front of the stage. There — very
good school-room chairs, not made for a theatre, I dare say ;
much more fitted for Httle girls to sit and kick their feet against
when they are learning a lesson. What would your governess
and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose?
Could Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless
himself, for we are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is
storming away in the dining-room. I heard him as I came
upstairs, and the theatre is engaged of course by those in-
defatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If they are not
perfect, I shall be surprised. By-the-bye, I looked in upon
them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one
of the times when they were trying not to embrace, and Mr.
Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look a little
queer, so I turned it ofE as well as I could, by whispering to
him, * We shall have an excellent Agatha, there is something
so maternal in her manner, so completely maternal in her
voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me?
He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy."

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling
which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly
calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly
feminine, as to be no very good picture of a man. With such
an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the
door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next
moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure, appeared in each of
the three on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was
come on the very same business that had brought Miss
Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more
than momentary in them. He, too, had his book, and was
seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him
to prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford
to be in the house; and great was the joy and animation of
being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes, and
sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.

She could not equal them in their warmth. Her spirits
sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming
too nearly nothing to both, to have any comfort in having
been sought by either. They must now rehearse together.

142 , 3^A3^FIELD PA'RK

Edmund proposed^ urged^ entreated it, till the lady, not very
unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was
wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested,
indeed, with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly
desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults; but from
doing so every feeling within her shrank — she could not,
would not, dared not, attempt it: had she been otherwise
qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained
her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself
to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in
particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her; and
it was sometimes more than enough; for she could not always
pay attention to the book. In watching them she forgot
herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's
manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly
as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable
weariness, and she was thanked and pitied ; but she deserved
their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise.
At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add
her praise to the compliments each was giving the other;
and when again alone, and able to recall the whole, she was
inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have
such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and
make it a very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever
might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it
again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was
certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the
Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose as soon
as they could after dinner; and every one concerned was
looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general
diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying
such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits
from the morning's rehearsal, and little vexations seemed
everywhere smoothed away. All were alert and impatient;
the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon followed them,
and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and
Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and,
having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted,
were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Craw-
fords to begin.

mAO^FIELD PA%K

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was
no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grants professing
an indisposition, for which he had little credit with his fair
sister-m-law, could not spare his wife.

" Dr. Grant is ill/' said she, with mock solemnity. He
has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant
to-day. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has
been suffering ever since."

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance
was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful con-
formity made her always valuable amongst them ; but now
she was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they
could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The
comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to
be done } Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause
of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny,
and a voice or two to say, If Miss Price would be so good as
to read the part." She was immediately surrounded by
supplications, everybody asked it, even Edmund said, " Do,
Fanny, if it is not very disagreeable to you."

But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the
idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as
well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room,
as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal
at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her;
she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly
punished.

" You have only to read the part," said Henry Crawford,
with renewed entreaty.

" And I do believe she can say every word of it," added
Maria, " for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in
twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part."

Fanny could not say she did not; and as they all per-
severed, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of
even fond dependence on her good nature, she must yield.
She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she
was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the
others prepared to begin.

They did begin; and being too much engaged in their own
noise to be struck by an [unusual] noise in the other part of
the house, had proceeded some way, when the door of the

144 31 ASiS FIELD PA%K

room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it, with a
face all aghast, exclaimed, My father is come I He is in
the hall at this moment."

How is the consternation of the party to be described ? To
the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir
Thomas in the house ! All felt the instantaneous conviction.
Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere.
Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indis-
putable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a
word was spoken for half a minute; each with an altered
countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was
feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most
appalling ! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious
interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth might
imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking
under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm,
every other heart was suggesting, " What will become of us?
what is to be done now? '' It was a terrible pause; and
terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening
doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy
and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in
the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance,
Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha's
narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon
as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of
her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's
hand, her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and
looking as red as she had been white before, she turned out
of the room, saying, / need not be afraid of appearing
before him."

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the
two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing
something. A very few words between them were sufficient.
The case admitted no difference of opinion ; they must go to

mA:KSFIELD PA%K 145

the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them with the same
intent_, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very cir-
cumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the
sweetest support. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at
such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and im-
portance, was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed
it as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was
equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly
heedless of Mr. Rushworth's requested question of, Shall I
go too ? Had not I better go too ? Will not it be right for
me to go too.^ " but they were no sooner through the door
than Henry Crawford undertook to answer the anxious
inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his respects
to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with
delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates.
She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her
own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection was much
too humble to give her any idea of classing herself with his
children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a little
breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that
was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which
not even innocence could keep from suffering. She was
nearly fainting: all her former habitual dread of her uncle
was returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost
every one of the party on the development before him, with
solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had
found a seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring
all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer
under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexa-
tion, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival
as a most untoward event, and without mercy whistling poor
Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or were
still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr.
Yates, from better understanding the family, and judging
more clearly of the mischief that must ensue. The ruin of
the play was to them a certainty: they felt the total destruc-
tion of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr. Yates
considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for
the evening, and could even suggest the possibiUty of the

146 :mao^field pa%k

rehearsal being renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiv-
ing Sir Thomas were over, and he might be at leisure to be
amused by it. The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and
having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly
home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr.
Yates's accompanying them and spending the evening at the
Parsonage. But Mr. Yates, having never been with those
who thought much of parental claims, or family confidence,
could not perceive that anything of the kind was necessary ;
and therefore, thanking them, said, " he preferred remaining
where he was, that he might pay his respects to the old
gentleman handsomely, since he was come; and besides, he
did not think it would be fair by the others, to have everybody
run away.''

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel
that if she staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful,
when this point was settled, and being commissioned with
the brother and sister's apology, saw them preparing to go as
she quitted the room herself to perform the dreadful duty of
appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door;
and after pausing a moment for what she knew would not
come, for a courage which the outside of no door had ever
supplied to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the
lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected family, were
before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.
Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and
saying, But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my httie
Fanny ? " — and, on perceiving her, came forward with a
kindness which astonished and penetrated her, calling her
his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and obsei*\'ing vvdth
decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew
not how to feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed.
He had never been so kind, so very kind to her in his life.
His manner seemed changed, his voice was quick from the
agitation of joy; and all that had been awful in his dignity
seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light and
looked at her again — inquired particularly after her health,
and then correcting himself, observed, that he need not
inquire, for her appearance spoke sufiiciently on that point.
A fine blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face,

mA^KSFIELD PA%K 147

he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement in health
and beauty. He inquired next after her family^ especially
William; and his kindness altogether was such as made her
reproach herself for loving him so little^ and thinking his
return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift
her eyes to his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and
had the burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate,
every tender feeling was increased, and she was miserable in
considering how much unsuspected vexation was probably
ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his
suggestion now seated themselves round the fire. He had
the best right to be the talker; and the delight of his sensa-
tions in being again in his own house, in the centre of his
family, after such a separation, made him communicative and
chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to give
every information as to his voyage, and answer every ques-
tion of his two sons almost before it was put. His business
in Antigua had latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came
directly from Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making
his passage thither in a private vessel, instead of waiting for
the packet; and all the little particulars of his proceedings
and events, his arrivals and departures, were most promptly
delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heart-
felt satisfaction on the faces around him — interrupting him-
self more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune
in finding them all at home — coming unexpectedly as he did
— all collected together exactly as he could have wished, but
dared not depend on. Mr. Rush worth v/as not forgotten; a
most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking had
already met him, and with pointed attention he was now
included in the objects most intimately connected with
Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rush-
worth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking him already.

By not one of the circle was he Hstened to with such un-
broken, unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really
extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were so
warmed by his sudden arrival, as to place her nearer agitation
than she had been for the last twenty years. She had been
almost fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so
sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from

148 3iA3iSFIELD PA%K

her side, and give all her attention and all the rest of her
sofa to her husband. She had no anxieties for anybody to
cloud her pleasure: her own time had been irreproachably
spent during his absence: she had done a great deal of
carpet work^ and made many yards of fringe; and she would
have answered as freely for the good conduct and useful
pursuits of all the young people as for her own. It was so
agreeable to her to see him again^ and hear him talk^ to have
her ear amused and her whole comprehensions filled by his
narratives^ that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully
she must have missed him, and how impossible it would
have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness
to her sister. Not that she was incommoded by many fears
of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present state of
his house should be known, for her judgment had been so
blinded that, except by the instinctive caution with which
she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as
her brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew
any sign of alarm; but she was vexed by the manner of his
return. It had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent
for out of the room^ and seeing him first, and having to
spread the happy news through the house. Sir Thomas, with
a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his
wife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler,
and had been following him almost instantaneously into the
drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an
office on which she had always depended, whether his arrival
or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was now
trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle
about, and labouring to be important where nothing was
wanted but tranquillity and silence. Would Sir Thomas
have consented to eat, she might have gone to the house-
keeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen
with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely
declined all dinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea
came — he would rather wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was
at intervals urging something different; and in the most
interesting moment of his passage to England, when the
alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst
through his recital with the proposal of soup. " Sure, my

mJDiSFlELD PA%K

dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a i. a.
thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup.''

Sir Thomas could not be provoked. " Still tht
anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris/
his answer. ^' But indeed I would rather have nothing L
' tea."

" Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea
directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems
behind hand to-night." She carried this point, and Sir
Thomas's narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause. His immediate communica-
tions were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking
joyfully around him, now at one, now at another of the
beloved circle; but the pause was not long: in the elation
of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were
the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, " How
do you think the young people have been amusing themselves
lately, Sir Thomas ? They have been acting. We have been
all alive with acting."

Indeed! and what have you been acting? "

" Oh! they'll tell you all about it."
The all will soon be told," cried Tom hastily, and with
affected unconcern; " but it is not worth while to bore my
father with it now. You will hear enough of it to-morrow,
sir. We have just been trying, by v/ay of doing something,
and amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get
up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant
rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly
confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken
out a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days,
but there has been no attempting anything since. The first
day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took the
copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace
between us, and might each have killed six times as many;
but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as
you could desire. I do not think you will find your woods
by any means worse stocked than they were. I never saw
Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life as this year.
I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir, soon."

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick
feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards brought

3\4A3KSFIELD PA%K

Thomas^ getting up^ said that he found that he
,J be any longer in the house without just looking
iS own dear room, every agitation was returning. He
gone before anything had been said to prepare him for
ue change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed
his disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak —
" Something must be done/' said he.
" It is time to think of our visitors/' said Maria, still feeling
her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring
little for anything else. " Where did you leave Miss Craw-
ford, Fanny? "

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. I will go
and fetch him. He will be no bad assistant when it all comes
out."

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to
witness the first meeting of his father and his friend. Sir
Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles
burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it, to see
other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air of
confusion in the furniture. The removal of the book-case
from before the billiard-room door struck him especially,
but he had scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all
this, before there were sounds from the billiard-room to
astonish him still further. Some one was talking there in a
very loud accent; he did not know the voice — more than
talking — almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing
at that moment in having the means of immediate communica-
tion, and, opening it, found himself on the stage of a theatre,
and opposed to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to
knock him down backwards. At the very moment of Yates
perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best
start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals,
Tom Bertram entered at the other end of the room; and
never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his counten-
ance. His father's looks of solemnity and amazement on
this, his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual
metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into
the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates, making his bow and
apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such an exhibition,
such a piece of true acting, as he would not have lost upon any

rMJO^FIELD PAI^K 151

account. It would be the last — in all probability — the last
scene on that stage ; but he was sure there could not be a finer.
The house would close with the greatest eclat.

There was little time^ however^ for the indulgence of any
images of merriment. It was necessary for him to step
forward^ too^ and assist the introduction, and with many
awkward sensations he did his best. Sir Thomas received
Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which was
due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased
with the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner
of its commencement. Mr. Yates's family and connections
were sufficiently known to him, to render his introduction
as the " particular friend/' another of the hundred particular
friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome ; and it needed all
the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance
it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding
himself thus bewildered in his own home, making part of
a ridiculous exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense,
and forced in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaint-
ance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving, and
whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the
first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of
the two.

Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing
he might be always as well disposed to give them but partial
expression, began to see more clearly than he had ever done
before, that there might be some ground of offence, that there
might be some reason for the glance his father gave towards
the ceiling and stucco of the room ; and that when he inquired
with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was
not proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few
minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on
each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as
to speak a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager
appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement,
the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together,
Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not lost
on all.

" I come from your theatre," said he, composedly, as he
sat down; " I found myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its
vicinity to my own room — but in every respect, indeed, it

152 04 A:KS FIELD PA%K

took me by surprise^ as I had not the smallest suspicion of
your acting having assumed so serious a character. It
appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candle-
light, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit/' And
then he would have changed the subject, and sipped his
coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue; but
Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thom.as's mean-
ing, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow
him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others
with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the
topic of the theatre, would torment liim with questions and
remarks relative to it, and finally would make him hear
the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir
Thomas listened most politely, but found much to offend his
ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill opinion of Mr. Yates's
habits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story ;
and when it was over, could give him no other assurance of
sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.

" This was, in fact, the origin of our acting,'' said Tom,
after a moment's thought. " My friend Yates brought the
infection from Ecclesford, and it spread — as those things
always spread, you know, sir — the faster, probably from your
having so often encouraged the sort of thing in us formerly.
It was like treading old ground again."

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as pos-
sible, and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what
they had done and were doing; told him of the gradual
increase of their views, the happy conclusion of their first
difficulties, and present promising state of affairs; relating
everything with so blind an interest as made him not only
totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his
friends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget,
the hem ! of unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing
the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed —
from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow contract as he looked
with inquiring earnestness at his daughters and Edmund,
dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a language,
a remonstrance, a reproof, which he felt at his heart. Not
less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her
chair behind her aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from
notice herself, saw all that was passing before her. Such a

MJ3KSFIELD PA%K 153

look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never
have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any
degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's
look implied^ On your judgment^ Edmund, I depended;
what have you been about? " She knelt in spirit to her
uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, " Oh, not to him 1
Look so to all the others, but not to him I "

Mr. Yates was still talking. " To own the truth. Sir
Thom.as, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you
arrived this evening. We were going through the three first
acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company
is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,
that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give
us the honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should
not be afraid of the result. We bespeak your indulgence,
you understand, as young performers; we bespeak your
indulgence.''

" My indulgence shall be given, sir," repHed Sir Thomas
gravely, but without any other rehearsal." And with a
relenting smile he added, I come home to be happy and
indulgent." Then turning away towards any or all of the
rest, he tranquilly said, Mr. and Miss Crawford were men-
tioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them
agreeable acquaintance? "

Tom v/as the only one at all ready with an answer, but he
being entirely without particular regard for either, without
jealousy either in love or acting, could speak very handsomely
of both. Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant gentlemanlike
man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl."

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. I do not say
he is not gentlemanlike, considering; but you should tell your
father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting
a well-looking man."

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with
some surprise at the speaker.

If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth,
*^ in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehears-
ing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so
fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal
better employed, sitting comiortably here among ourselves^
apd doing nothing."

154 MA^K^FIELD PA%K

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an ap-
proving smile, I am happy to find our sentiments on this
subject so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction.
That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many-
scruples which my children do not feel, is perfectly natural;
and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a
home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed
theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this, is a most
favourable circumstance for yourself, and for everybody con-
nected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of
having an ally of such weight.''

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion
in better words than he could find himself. He was aware
that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as
a well- judging, steady young man, with better notions than
his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him
very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not
to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so
much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, most ex-
ceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying
scarcely anything, he did his best towards preserving that
good opinion a little longer.

CH^PTE^^XX

Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father
alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole acting
scheme, defending his own share in it as far only as he could
then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives to deserve, and
acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that his conces-
sion had been attended with such partial good as to make
his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while
vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others; but
there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could
mention without some necessity of defence or palliation.
" We have all been more or less to blame," said he, " every
one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has
judged rightly throughout; who has been consistent. H^r

MAJiSFIELD FA%K 155

feelings have been steadily against it from first to last. She
never ceased to think of what was due to you. You will find
Fanny everything you could wish."

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among
such a party^ and at such a time, as strongly as his son had
ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed, for many
words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to
try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much
he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the
house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remem-
brance, and restored to its proper state. He did not enter
into any remonstrance with his other children : he was more
willing to believe they felt their error, than to run the risk
of investigation. The reproof of an immediate conclusion
of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be
sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he
could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his
conduct. He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his
having hoped, that her advice might have been interposed to
prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved.
The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the
plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision
themselves ; but they were young ; and, excepting Edmund,
he believed, of unsteady characters; and with greater sur-
prise, therefore, he must regard her acquiescence in their
wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe amusements,
than that such measures and such amusements should have
been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as
nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life ; for she
was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the impro-
priety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would not
have admitted that her influence was insufficient — that she
might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out
of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir
Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great
deal to insinuate in her own praise as to general attention to
the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and
many sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and
sudden removals from her own fireside, and many excellent
hints of distrust and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund

Z56 PA%K

to detail^ whereby a most considerable saving had always
arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But
her chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support
and glory was in having formed the connection with the Rush-
worths. There she was impregnable. She took to herself
all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of
Maria to any ejffect. If I had not been active/' said she,
and made a point of being introduced to his mother, and
then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as
certain as I sit here that nothing would have come of it ; for
Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man
who wants a great deal of encouragement, and there were
girls enough on the catch for him if we had been idle. But
I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and
earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her.
You know the distance to Sotherton ; it was in the middle of
winter, and the roads almost impassable, but I did persuade
her.''

" I know how great, how justly great, your influence is
with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more con-
cerned that it should not have been — "

" My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the
roads that day ! I thought we should never have got through
them, though we had the four horses of course ; and poor old
coachman would attend us, out of his great love and kind-
ness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on account of
the rhemnatism which I had been doctoring him for ever
since Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad
all the winter — ^and this was such a day, I could not help
going to him up in his room before we set off to advise him
not to venture : he was putting on his wig ; so I said, ' Coach-
man, you had much better not go ; your Lady and I shall be
very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has
been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure there is
no fear.' But, however, I soon found it would not do; he
was bent upon going, and as I hate to be worrying and offi-
cious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him at
ever jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke,
where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was
worse than anything you can imagine, I was quite in an
agony about him. And then the poor horses tool To see

mAHSFIELD PA%K 157

them straining away ! You know how I alwa3^s feel for the
horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill,
what do you think I did ? r You will laugh at me ; but I got out
and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be saving them
much^ but it was somethings and I could not bear to sit at my
ease, and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals.
I caught a dreadful cold, but that I did not regard. My
object was accomplished in the visit."

" I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any
trouble that might be taken to establish it. There is nothing
very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased
last night with what appeared to be his opinion on one sub-
ject; his decided preference of a quiet family party to the
bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly
as one could wish."

Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better
I you will like him. He is not a shining character, but he has
a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed to look up to
you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for everybody con-
siders it as my doing. ' Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,' said
Mrs. Grant, the other day, ' if Mr. Rushworth were a son of
your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.' "
Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, dis-
armed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with
the conviction that where the present pleasure of those she
loved was at stake, her kindness did sometimes overpower
her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any
of them occupied but a small part of it. He had to reinstate
himself in all the wonted concerns of his Mansfield life; to
see his steward and his bailiff ; to examine and compute, and,
in the intervals of business, to walk into his stables and his
gardens, and nearest plantations ; but active and methodical,
he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as
master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter

' to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in
the billiard-room, and given the scene-painter his dismissal,

' long enough to justify the pleasing belief of his being then at
least as far off as Northampton. The scene-painter was

..J gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the
coachman's sponges, and made five of the under servants idle

158 mA3iSFIELD PA%K

and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another
day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward
memento of what had been^ even to the destruction of every
unbound copy of Lovers' Vows " in the house^ for he was
burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's
intentions, though as far as ever from understanding their
source. He and his friend had been out with their guns the
chief of the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of
explaining, with proper apologies for his father's particularity,
what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as
might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the
same way was an instance of very severe ill luck; and his
indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy to-
wards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister, he beheved
he should certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of
his proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality.
He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood,
and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir
Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made
Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and
feel the folly of it without opposition. He had known many
disagreeable fathers before, and often been struck with the
inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in the whole
course of his life, had he seen one of that class, so unintelli-
gibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He
v/as not a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and
he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr.
Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though
almost every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir
Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the
w^ant of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agita-
tion. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford
should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was
disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming
to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him
the whole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expect-
ing him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the great
news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an
inmiediate eclaircissement as might save him the trouble of

mA:KSFIELD PA%K 159

ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the
Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond
a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs.
Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many
weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-
and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August
began, without bringing them together in some way or other.
It was a sad anxious day; and the morrow, though differ-
ing in the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few
moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of
acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house:
he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his
respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they
were ushered into the breakfast room, where were most of
the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with
delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved
to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were
they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford,
who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in
an under voice, whether there were any plans for resuming
the play after the present happy interruption (with a cour-
teous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should
make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required
by the party : he was going away immediately, being to meet
his uncle at Bath without delay : but if there were any pros-
pect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself
positively engaged, he should break through every other
claim; he should absolutely condition with his uncle for
attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play
should not be lost by his absence.

From Bath, Norfolk, London, York; wherever I may
be," said he: ''I will attend you from any place in England,
at an hour's notice."

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak and
not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency,
" I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, that is all over
— entirely at an end — (looking significantly at his father).
The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain
of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how that would be from
the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there."

It is about my uncle's usual time."

i6o aiAJ<^FIELD PA%K

When do you think of going? "

I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."
"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next
question; and while this branch of the subject was under
discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution,
was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable
calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had
already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions
of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air ? He
was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intend-
ing to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his
uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might
talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand
which had so pressed her's to his heart! the hand and the
heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit
supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She
had not long to endure what arose from listening to language
which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her
feelings under the restraint of society ; for general civilities
soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it
then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one.
He was gone — he had touche.1 her hand for the last time,
he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly all
that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone,
gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from
the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had
raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was
beginning to be odious to her ; and if Maria gained him not,
she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge.
She did not want exposure to be added to desertion. Henry
Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence.
She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others
it was mentioned with regret; and his merits honoured with
due gradation of feeling, from the sincerity of Edmund's too
partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speaking
entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and
wonder that bis falling in love with Julia had come to nothing :
and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in

rMJS^FIELD PA%K i6i

forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was it
possible for even her activity to keep pace with her wishes ?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone Hkewise. In
his departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest; wanting to
be alone with his family, the presence of a stranger superior
to Mr. Yates must have been irksome; but of him, trifling
and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way vexatious.
In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and
the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had
been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying;
but his good wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey,
as he walked with him to the hall door, were given with
genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the destruc-
tion of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the removal
of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in
all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas
hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object
connected with the scheme, and the last that must be
inevitably reminding him of its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight
that might have distressed him. The curtain over which she
had presided with such talent and such success, went off with
her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in
want of green baize.

CH^PTE%^XXI

Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of
the family, independent of Lovers' Vows. Under his govern-
ment, Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of
their society sent away, and the spirits of many others
saddened — it was all sameness and gloom compared with the
past — a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was
little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing
baxk from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined,
at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter. The
Rushworth's were the only addition to his own domestic
f circle which he could solicit.

i62 MADiSFIELD FA%K

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's
feelings, nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of \
the Grants. " But they/' he observed to Fanny, " have a
claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of
ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their ,
very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was j
away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. :
But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them. They |
had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England. If j
he knew them better, he would value their society as it ^
deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he \
would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation
among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is
certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven
us, and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment
even to my father."

" Do you think so? " said Fanny: in my opmion, my
uncle would not like any addition. I think he values the
very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own
family circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me
that we are more serious than we used to be — I mean before
my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was
always much the same. There was never much laughmg m
his presence; or, if there is any difference it is not more I
think than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first.
There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that
our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my
uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when
those they look up to are at home."

" I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a
short consideration. I believe our evenings are rather
returned to what they were, than assuming a new character.
The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the
impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been
feeling as if we had never lived so before."

" I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny.
" The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my
uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an
hour together. It entertains me more than many other things
have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare say."

" Why should vou dare say that ? " (smiling). Do you

mAD^FIELD PA%K 163

want to be told that you are only unlike other people in being
more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody,
ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father
if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments
enough: and though they may be chiefly on your person,
you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much
beauty of mind in time."

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite em-
barrassed her.

Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny — and
that is the long and the short of the matter. Anybody but
myself would have made something more of it, and anybody
but you would resent that you had not been thought very
pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did
admire you till now — and now he does. Your complexion
is so improved ! — and you have gained so much countenance !
— and your figure — nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it —
it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration,
what is to become of you ? You must really begin to harden
yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must ^
try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman."

Oh ! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed
by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she
was distressed, he had done with the subject, and only added
more seriously, —

" Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every
respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. You
are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle."

" But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do.
Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade last
night?"

" I did — and was in hopes the question would be followed
; up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be
inquired of farther."

! " And I longed to do it — but there was such a dead silence !
[ And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a
1 word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not
I like — I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself
j off at their expense^ by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his
iunformation which he must wish his ow^n daughters to feel."

\

1 64 3liA3<S FIELD PA%K

Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you
the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice
and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking
of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words. She
has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better. For so young a woman, it is remarkable !
She certainly understands you better than you are under-
stood by the greater part of those who have known you so
long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive, from
•occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of the
moment, that she could define many as accurately, did not
delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father!
She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most
gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but, perhaps,
having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repul-
sive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their liking
each other. He would enjoy her liveliness, and she has
talents to value his powers. I wish they met more fre-
quently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike
on his side."

She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the
rest of you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, to have any such
apprehension. And Sir Thomas's wishing just at first to be
only with his family, is so very natural, that she can argue
nothing from that. After a little while I dare say we shall
be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing for the
difference of the time of year."

This is the first October that she has passed in the
country since her infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or
Cheltenham the country; and November is a still more
serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious
for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say
nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources,
her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance, her friends,
lest it should betray her into any observations seemingly un-
handsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of herself deserved
at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk of
something else.

To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and
you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party

PAT^ 165

at home. I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr. Rush-
worth."

That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after
to-morrow's visits for we shall be five hours in his company.
I should dread the stupidity of the day, if there were not a
much greater evil to follow — the impression it must leave on
Sir Thomas. He cannot much longer deceive himself. I am
sorry for them all, and would give something that Rushworth
and Maria had never met."

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending
over Sir Thomas. Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth,
not all Mr. Rushworth's deference for him, could prevent him
from soon discerning some part of the truth — that Mr. Rush-
worth was an inferior young man, as ignorant in business as
in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without
seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and begin-
ning to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to understand
her feelings. Little observation there was necessary to tell
him that indifference was the most favourable state they
could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless
and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas
resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would
be the alliance, and long standing and public as was the
engagement, her happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr.
Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted on too short an
acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she was re-
penting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her ; told her
his fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open
and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience should
be braved, and the connection entirely given up, if she felt
herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He would act for her
and release her. Maria had a moment's struggle as she
listened, and only a moment's; when her father ceased, she
was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and with
no apparent a.gitation. She thanked him for his great atten-
tion, his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in sup-
posing she had the smallest desire of breaking through her
engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or
inclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem

1 66 MAdi&FlELD PAl^

for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition, and could not
have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps,
to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment might have
dictated to others. It was an alliance v/hich he could not
have relinquished without pain; and thus he reasoned. Mr.
Rushworth was 5^oung enough to improve. Mr. Rushworth
must and would improve in good society ; and if Maria could
now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking
certainly without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she
ought to be believed. Her feelings, probably, were not
acute; he had never supposed them to be so; but her com-
forts might not be less on that account; and if she could
dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
there would -certainly be everything else in her favour. A
well-disposed young woman, who did not marry for love, was
in general but the more attached to her own family ; and the
nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold out
the greatest temptation, and would, in all probability, be a
continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoy-
ments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir
Thomas, happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture,
the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must attend it ;
happy to secure a marriage which would bring him such an
addition of respectability and influence, and very happy to
think anything of his daughter's disposition that was most
favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him.
She was in a state of mind to be glad that she had secured
her fate beyond recall ; that she had pledged herself anew to
Sotherton; that she was safe from the possibility of giving
Crawford the triumph of governing her actions, and destroy-
ing her prospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined
only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future,
that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first
three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield,
before her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she had
given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on en-
during his rival, her answer might have been different ; but
after another three or four days, when there was no return,

mAH§FIELD PA^ 167

no lett^r^ no message^ no symptom of a softened hearty no
hope of advantage from separation, her mind became cool
enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self-revenge
could give.

Henr}^ Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he
should not know that he had done it; he should not destroy
her credit, her appearance, her prosperity, too. He should
not have to think of her as pining in the retirement of Mans-
field for him, rejecting Sotherton and London, independence
and splendour, for his sake. Independence was more needful
than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt.
She was less and less able to endure the restraint which her
father imposed. The liberty which his absence had given
was now become absolutely necessary. She must escape
from him and Mansfield as soon as possible, and find conso-
lation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world, for
a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and
varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation,
would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly
be more impatient for the marriage than herself. In all the
important preparations of the mind she was complete : being
prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home, restraint, and
tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection, and
contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might
wait. The preparations of new carriages and furniture might
wait for London and spring, when her own taste could have
fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon
appeared that a very few weeks would be sufiicient for such
arrangements as must precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way
for the fortunate young woman whom her dear son had
selected; and very early in November removed herself, her
maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true dowager pro-
priety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton
in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, per-
haps, in the animation of a card-table as she had ever done
on the spot; and before the middle of the same month the
ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton anothei
mistress.

1 68 mA:KSFIELD PA%K

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly
dressed; the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father
gave her away; her mother stood with salts in her hand,
expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry; and the
service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing could
be objected to when it came under the discussion of the
neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed
the bride and bridegroom and Julia from the church door to
Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr. Rushworth had
used for a twelvemonth before. In everything else the
etiquette of the day might stand the strictest investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an
anxious father must feel, and was indeed experiencing much
of the agitation which his wife had been apprehensive of for
herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs. Norris, most
happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending it at the
Park to support her sister's spirits, and drinking the health
of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two,
was all joyous delight ; for she had made the match; she had
done everything ; and no one would have supposed, from her
confident triumph, that she had ever heard of conjugal-
infelicity in her life, or could have the smallest insight into
the disposition of the niece who had been brought up under
her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few
days, to Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks.
Every public place was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost
as gay in winter as in summer. When the novelty of amuse-
ment there was over, [it] would be time for the wider range
of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry
between the sisters had ceased, they had been gradually
recovering much of their former good understanding: and
were at least sufficiently friends to make each of them
exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some
other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first con-
sequence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for
novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might not have
struggled through so much to obtain them, and could better
bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mans-

MAO^SFIELD PA%K

169

fields a chasm which required some time to fill up. The
family circle became greatly contracted; and though the
Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to its gaiety, they
could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;
and how much more their tender-hearted cousin, who
wandered about the house, and thought of them, and felt for
them, with a degree of affectionate regret which they had
never done much to deserve !

CH^PTE^R^XXII

Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her
cousins. Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman
in the drawing-room, the only occupier of that interesting
division of a family in which she had hitherto held so humble
a third, it was impossible for her not to be more looked at,
more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been
before; and "where is Fanny.?" became no uncommon
question, even without her being wanted for any one's
convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the
Parsonage too. In that house which she had hardly entered
twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became a welcome,
an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt of a November
day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,
beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs.
Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by
the easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the
kindest thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important
opportunities of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand
by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close
to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the windows
endeavouring to find shelter under the branches and lingering
leaves of an oak just beyond their premises, was forced,
though not without some modest reluctance on her part, to
I come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when
Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was

170 mAJiSFIELD PA1{K

nothing to be done but to be very much asiiamed, and to get
into the house as fast as possible ; and to poor Miss Crawford^
who had just been contemplating the dismal rain in a very
desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her plan
of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing
a single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four
hours, the sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the
sight of Miss Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was
delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the
country was most forcibly brought before her. She was all
alive again directly, and among the most active in being
useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would
at first allow, and providing her with dry clothes ; and Fanny,
after being obliged to submit to all this attention, and to
being assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being
also obliged, on returning downstairs, to be fixed in their
drawing-room for an hour while the rain continued, the
blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus
extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits
to the period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that
Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed
herself not in the way, and could she have forseen that the
weather would certainly clear at the end of the hour, and save
her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage and horses
out to take her home, with which she was threatened. As
to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather
might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that
score ; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts,
she was perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that
in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse to establish
her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be
indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing
a harp in the room, asked some questions about it, which
soon led to an acknowledgment of her wishing very much to
hear it, and a confession, which could hardly be believed,
of her having never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield.
To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural
circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage
since the instrument's arrival, there had been no reason that i

mADiSFIELD PA%K j^i

she should; but Miss Crawford^ calling to mind an early
expressed wish on the subject^ was concerned at her own
neglect; and shall I play to you now? " and what will
you have? were questions immediately following with the
readiest good humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener^
and a listener who seemed so much obliged^ so full of wonder
at the performance, and who shewed herself not wanting
in taste. wShe played till Fanny's eyes, sti;^ying to the
window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what
she felt must be done,

" Another quarter of an hour/' said Miss Crawford, " and
we shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first
moment of its holding up. Those clouds look alarming."

" But they are passed over," said Fanny. " I have been
watching them. This weather is all from the south."

" South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and
you must not set forward while it is so threatening. And
besides I want to play something more to you — a very pretty
piece — and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite. You
must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited
for that sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento
made her particularly awake to his idea, and she fancied him
sitting in that room again and again, perhaps in the very
spot where she sat now, listening with constant delight to
the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her, with superior
tone and expression ; and though pleased with it herself, and
glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more
sincerely impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than
she had been before; and on this being evident, she was
so kindly asked to call again, to take them in her walk when-
ever she could, to come and hear more of the harp, that she
felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took
place between them within the first fortnight after the Miss
Bertrams' going away — an intimacy resulting principally
from Miss Crawford's desire of something new, and which had
little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her every
two or three days : it seemed a kind of fascination : she could
not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her.

172 {MA3s(^SFIELD PA%K

without ever thinking like her^ without any sense of obliga-
tion for being sought after now when nobody else was to be
had; and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation
than occasional amusement^ and that often at the expense
of her judgment^ when it was raised by pleasantry on people
or subjects v/hicli she wished to be respected. She went,
however, and they sauntered about together many an half
hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually
mild for the time of year; and venturing sometimes even
to sit down on one of the benches now comparatively un-
sheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst of some
tender ejaculation of Fanny's, on the sweets of so protracted
an autumn, they were forced by the sudden swell of a cold gust
shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump
up and walk for warmth.

This is pretty, very pretty/' said Fanny, looking around
her as they were thus sitting together one day; every time
I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its growth
and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough
hedgerow along the upper side of the field, never thought of
as anything, or capable of becoming anything ; and now it is
converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether
most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and per-
haps, in another three years we may be forgetting — almost
forgetting what it was before. How wonderful, how very
wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the
human mind ! " And following the latter train of thought,
she soon afterwards added : If any one faculty of our nature
may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is
memory. There seems something more speakingly incom-
prehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of
memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory
is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient: at
others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so
tyrannic, so beyond controul ! W e are, to be sure, a miracle
every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting
do seem peculiarly past finding out."

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to
say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind
to what she thought must interest.

It may seem impertinent in me to praise, but I must

^AS^FIELD PA%K

admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is
such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk! Not too
much attempted ! "

Yes/' replied Miss Crawford, carelessly, " it does very
well for a place of this sort. One does not think of extent
here ; and between ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had
not imagined a country parson ever aspired to a shrubbery,
or anything of the kind."

I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive ! " said Fanny,
in reply. My uncle's gardener always says the soil here is
better than his own, and so it appears from the growth of
the laurels and evergreens in general. The evergreen ! How
beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature !
In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the
variety > but that does not make it less amazing, that the same
soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the
first rule and law of their existence. You will think me
rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially when
I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort
of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the
commonest natural production without finding food for a
rambling fancy."

To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, I am some-
thing like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV. ; and
may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to
seeing myself in it. If anybody had told me a year ago that
this place would be my home, that I should be spending
month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should
not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five
months; and, moreover, the quietest five months I ever
passed."

Too quiet for you, I beHeve."
" I should have thought so theoretically myself, but," and
her eyes brightened as she spoke, take it all and all, I never
spent so happy a summer. But then," with a more thought-
ful air and lowered voice, " there is no saying what it may
lead to."

Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to
surmising or sohciting anything more. Miss Crawford;
however, with renewed animation, soon wexxt on : —

174 mA:H^FIELD FA%K

" I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country
residence than I had ever expected to be. I can even sup-
pose it pleasant to spend lialj the year in the country^ under
certain circumstances, very pleasant. An elegant, moderate
sized house in the centre of family connections; continual
engagements among them; commanding the first society in
the neighbourhood ; looked-up to, perhaps, as leading it even
more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheer-
ful round of such amusements to nothing worse than a tete-
a-tete with the person one feels most agreeable in the world.
There is nothing frightful in such a picture, is there. Miss
Price? One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with
such a home as thair Envy Mrs. Rushvv^orth! " v/as all
that Fanny attempted to say. " Come, come, it v/ould be
very unhandsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for
I look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant,
happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sother-
ton another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made
is a public blessing ; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's
wife must be to fill her house, and give the best balls in the
country.*'

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thought-
fulness, till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes,
she exclaimed, Ah! here he is." It was not Mr. Rush-
worth, however, but Edmund, who then appeared walking
towards them with Mrs. Grant. My sister and Mr. Bertram.
I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.
Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr.
Edmund Bertram so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-
like, that I detest it.''

How differently we feel! " cried Fanny. To me, the
sound of Mr. Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so
entirely without warmth or character! It just stands for a
gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness in the name
of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of kings,
princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of
chivalry and warm affections."

I grant you the name is good in itself, and Lord Edmund
or Sir Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the
chill, the annihilation of a Mr. and Mr. Edmund is no more
than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and dis-

appoint them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of
doors at this time of year, by being up before they can begin ? "

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the
first time of his seeing them together since the beginning of
that better acquaintance which he had been hearing of with
great satisfaction. A friendship between two so very dear
to him was exactly what he could have wished : and to the
credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he did
not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the
greater gainer by such a friendship.

Well," said Miss Crawford, and do you not scold us for
our imprudence ? What do you think we have been sitting
down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated and
supplicated never to do so again ? "

Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, if either
of you had been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong
together, I can overlook a great deal."

They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant,
" for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the
staircase window, and then they were walking."

And really," added Edmund, the day is so mild, that
your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly thought
imprudent. Our weather must not always be judged by the
calendar. We may sometimes take greater liberties in
November than in May."

Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, you are two of
the most disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met
with ! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You
do not know how much we have been suffering, nor what
chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram
one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with.
I had very little hope of him from the first; but you, Mrs.
Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm
you a little."

Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not
the smallest chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but
they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could have
altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp east
wind blowing on you the whole time — for here are some of
my plants which Robert will leave out because the nights are

176 FIELD PA%K

so mild^ and I know the end of it will be^ that we shall have
a sudden change of weather^ a hard frost setting in all at
once, taking everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I
shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just been
telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not
to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more
Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the
day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something
like grievances, and make me think the weather most
unseasonably close.''

" The sweets of housekeeping in a country village 1 said
Miss Crawford, archly. Commend me to the nurseryman
and the poulterer.''

My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of
Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your
nurseryman and poulterer as you could be. But we have no
such people in Mansfield. What would you have me do? "

"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be
plagued very often, and never lose your temper."

' ' Thank you ; but there is no escaping these little vexations,
Mary, live where we may ; and when you are settled in town
and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours,
in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer — or perhaps on
their very account. Their remoteness and unpunctuality,
or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing forth
bitter lamentations."

" I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of
the sort. A large income is the best recipe for happiness I
ever heard of. It certainly may secure all the myrtle and
turkey part of it."

" You intend to be very rich? " said Edmund, with a look
which, to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all? "

" I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely
beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse 1
her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of |
thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming.
My intentions are only not to be poor."

" By moderation and economy, and bringing down your
wants to your income, and all that. I understand you — and
a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with

MADiSFIELD PA1{K

such limited means and indifferent connections. What can
you want but a decent maintenance? You have not much
time before you ; and your relations are in no situation to do
anything for you^ or to mortify you by the contrast of their
own wealth and consequence — Be honest and poor, by all
means — but I shall not envy you ; I do not much think I shall
even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those
that are honest and rich.''

" Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is
precisely what I have no manner of concern with. I do not
mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have determined
against. Honesty, in the something between, in the middle
state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for
your not looking down on.''

" But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher.
I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity
when it might rise to distinction."

" But how may it rise.? How may my honesty at least
rise to any distinction .^^ "

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occa-
sioned an " Oh! " of some length from the fair lady before
she could add, " You ought to be in parliament, or you
should have gone into the army ten years ago."

" That is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being
in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial
assembly for the representation of younger sons who have
little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added, in a more
serious tone, " there are distinctions which I should be
miserable if I thought myself without any chance — absolutely
without chance or possibility of obtaining — but they are of
a different character."

A look of consciousness, as he spoke, and what seemed a
consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made
some laughing answer, was sorrowful food for Fanny's
observation; and finding herself quite unable to attend as
she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following
the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immedi-
ately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound
of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her
feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual,
and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should

1 78 JidJDiSFIELD PJJiK

take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue
With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus;
and Edmund began at the same time to recollect, that his
mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked
down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny's hurry increased ; and without in the least expect-
ing Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away
alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all
accompanied her into the house through which it was
necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as
they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner,
that he did mean to go with her. He, too, was taking leave.
She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting,
Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him
the next day ; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant
feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden
recollection, turned to her, and asked for the pleasure of her
company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly
new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she
was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering
out her great obligation, and her — but she did not suppose
it would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his
opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having
such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look,
and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her
aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would
make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his
decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted;
and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encourage-
ment, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon
settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs.
Grant might expect her.

And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs.
Grant, smiling — the turkey, and I assure you a very fine
one; for, my dear," turning to her husband, " cook insists
upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."

" Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, all the better;
I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house.
But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would
tiike their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of
fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we

^JJiS FIELD PJ'S^. (^jy

have in view. A turkey^ or a goose^ or a leg of mutton, or
whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in
the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund
spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly
desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much
pleasure established, it was a silent walk ; for having finished
that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any
other.

CH^PTE'F^XXIII

" But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny ? " said Lady
Bertram. How came she to think of asking Fanny
Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I
cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you? "

" If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund,
preventing his cousin's speaking, Fanny will immediately
say. No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to
go; and I can see no reason why she should not."

" I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking
her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters
now and then, but she never asked Fanny."

" If you cannot do without me, ma'am " said Fanny,

in a self-denying tone.

But my mother will have my father with her all the
evening."

" To be sure, so I shall."

" Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."

" That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask
Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without
her."

As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my
father's opinion as to the propriety of the invitation's being
accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing
by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the fir si
invitation it should be accepted."

i8o MA^KSFIELD PA%K

" I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very
much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.''

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said^
to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the
subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for
the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's
mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a
minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room,
she called him back again, when he had almost closed the
door, with " Sir Thomas, stop a moment — I have something
to say to you."

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble
of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to;
and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny
immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself
the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than
her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew — more
anxious perhaps than she ought to be — for what was it after
all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a
great while considering and deciding, and with very grave
looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide
against her, she might not be able to appear properly sub-
missive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well.
It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with — I have something
to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs, Grant has asked
Fanny to dinner."

Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish
the surprise.

Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her? "

She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch;
" but what is your difficulty? "

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the
blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole ; and she had
only to add, So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask
her."

" But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, that
Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for
her sister? "

Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a
short deUberation; nor, were there no sister in the case,
could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs.

m A 3^ FIELD PA'JiK i8i

Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price^ to Lady Bertram's
niece^ could never want explanation. The only surprise I
can feel is^ that this should be the -first time of its being paid.
Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer.
She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that
she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together,
I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."
But can I do without her, Sir Thomas? "
" Indeed I think you may."

" She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not
here."

" Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the
day with us, and I shall certainly be at home."
Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."

The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at
her door in his way to his own.

Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the
smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one
opinion. You are to go."

" Thank you, I am so glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply;
though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she
could not help feeling, And yet why should I be glad? for
am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to
pain me ? "

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple
as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had
novelty and importance in her's, for excepting the day at
Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and
though now going only half a mile, and only to three people,
still it was dining out, and all the little interests of prepara-
tion were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sym-
pathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered
into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram
never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris,
when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early
call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour,
and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure,
both present and future, as much as possible.

Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with
such attention and indulgence ! You ought to be very much
obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt

1 82 mA^KSFIELD PATQC

for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as some-
thing extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is
no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of
way, or ever dining out at all ; and it is what you must not
depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying
that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to
you ; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and
me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to us to take a little
notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head,
and you may be very certain, that if your cousin Julia had
been at home, you would not have been asked at all."

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs.
Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself
expected to speak, could only say that she was very much
obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she
was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a
state as to prevent her being missed.

Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without
you, or you would not be allowed to go. 1 shall be here, so
you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you
will have a very agreeable day, and find it all mighty delightful.
But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all
possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be
surprised that such an elegant lady as Mrs. Grant should not
contrive better ! And round their enormous great wide table,
too, which fills up the room so dreadfully ! Had the Doctor
been contented to take my dining table when I came away,
as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having
that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider
than the dinner table here, how infinitely better it would have
been! and how much more he would have been respected!
for people are never respected when they step out of their
proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five — only five to
be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner
enough on it for ten, I dare say."

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

" The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their
rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes m^e think
it right to give you a hint, Fanny, now that you are going
into company without any of us; and I do beseech and
entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking

MADiSFIELD PA%K 183

and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins,
as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. That will
never do^ believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you
must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in
a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking
place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay
just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle that.^^

" Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."

" And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely,
for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my
life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be ex-
pecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not
go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out
on my account; so you must make up your mind to what
may happen, and take your things accordingly."

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her
own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and
when Sir Thomas, soon afterwards, just opening the door,
said, Fanny, at what time would you have the carriage
come round? " she felt a degree of astonishment which made
it impossible for her to speak.

My dear Sir Thomas 1 " cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger,
" Fanny can walk."

''Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most un-
answerable dignity, and coming farther into the room. '' My
niece walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year I
Will twenty minutes after four suit you? "

Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the
feelings almost of a criminial towards Mrs. Norris ; and not
bearing to remain with her in what might seem a state of
triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room, having staid
behind him only long enough to hear these words spoken in
angry agitation: —

*' Quite unnecessary ! a great deal too kind ! But Edmund
goes; true, it is upon Edmund's account. I observed he
was hoarse on Thursday night."

But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the
carriage was for herself, and herself alone; and her uncle's
consideration of her, coming immediately after such repre-
sentations from her aunt, cost her some tears of gratitude
when she was alone.

1 84 mA:K§FIELD PA%K.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute
brought down the gentleman; and as the lady had, with a
most scrupulous fear of being late, been many minutes seated
in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them off in as good
time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

" Now I must look at you, Fanny,'' said Edmund, with
the kind smile of an affectionate brother, and tell you how
I like you; and as well as I can judge by this light, you look
very nicely indeed. What have you got on? "

The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give
me on my cousin's marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but
I thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and that I
might not have such another opportunity all the winter.
I hope you do not think me too fine."

A woman can never be too fine while she is all in
white. No, I see no finery about you; nothing but what is
perfectly proper. Your gown seems very pretty. I like
these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown something
the same.^ "

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the
stable-yard and coach-house.

Hey-day ! " said Edmund, " here's company, here's a
carriage ! who have they got to meet us ? " And letting down
the side-glass to distinguish, 'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's
barouche, I protest! There are his own two men pushing
it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is
quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him."

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say
how very differently she felt; but the idea of having such
another to observe her, was a great increase of the trepida-
tion with which she performed the very aweful ceremony of
walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was ; having
been just long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and
the smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing
round him, showed how welcome was his sudden resolution
of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very
cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund ; and with
the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general ; and even
to hey, there might be some advantage in his presence, since
every addition to the party must rather forward her

mAD<^FIELD PA%K 185

favourite indulge ice of being suffered to sit silent and un-
attended to. Sh^ vms soon aware of this herself ; for though
she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in
spite of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal
lady in company, and to all the little distinctions consequent
thereon, she found, while they were at table, such a happy
flow of conversation prevailing, in which she was not required
to take any part — there was so much to be said between the
brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two
young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr.
Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together
between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the
fairest prospect of having only to listen in quiet, and of
passing a very agreeable day. She could not compliment
the newly-arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance
of interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield,
and sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested
by Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the
two sisters, was soon in possession of his mind, and which
he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve
on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance
of the open weather, but her answers were as short and
indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish him to
stay, and would much rather not have him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in
her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing re-
membrance affected his spirits. Here he was again on the
same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as
willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as
if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She
heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they
were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund,
being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr.
Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs.
Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them
'v^dth more particularity to his other sister. With a significant
smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, " So
Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand ;
happy man! "

" Yes, they have been there about a fortnight. Miss Price,
have they not? And Julia is with them."

1 86 mJHSFIELD PA%^

" And Mr. Yates^ I presume, is not far of."

" Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of VTr. Yates. I do
not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park ;
do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better
than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates."

" Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches ! "
continued Crawford. " Nobody can ever forget them.
Poor fellow ! I see him now — his toil and his despair. Well,
I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him
to make two-and-forty speeches to her; " adding, with a
momentary seriousness, She is too good for him — much
too good." And then changing his tone again to one of
gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, " You were
Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience
can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying
to make it possible for him to learn his part — in trying to
give him a brain which nature had denied — to mix up an
understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own!
He might not have sense enough himself to estimate your
kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from
all the rest of the party."

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

" It is as a dream, a pleasant dream !" he exclaimed, breaking
forth again, after a few minutes' musing. " I shall always
look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There
was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused.
Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employ-
ment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day.
Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little
anxiety to be got over. I never was happier."

With silent indignation, Fanny repeated to herself, Never
happier! — never happier than when doing what you must
know was not justifiable ! — never happier than when behaving
so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted
mind ! " ^

We were unlucky. Miss Price," he continued, in a lower
tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund,
and not at all aware of her feelings, " we certainly were very
unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have
been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal cf
events — if Mansfield Park had had the government of the

MA^KSFIELD PJ%K 187

winds just for a week or two^ about the equinox, there would
have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered
his safety by any tremendous weather — but only by a steady
contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have
indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that
season."

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny avert-
ing her face, said with a firmer tone than usual, As far as
I am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for
a day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did
arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite far
enough."

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life
before, and never so angrily to any one ; and when her speech
was over, she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He
was surprised ; but after a few moments' silent consideration
of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid
result of conviction, I believe you are right. It was more
pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And
then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on
some other subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant
that he could not advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant
and Edmund, now observed, " Those gentlemen must have
some ve^-y interesting point to discuss."

" The most interesting in the world," replied her brother —
" how to make money ; how to turn a good income into a
better. Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the
living he is to step into so soon. I find he takes orders in a
few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I am
glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very
pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned
without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less
than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine
thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will still
live a home, it will be all for his menus plaisirs ; and a sermon
at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of
sacrifice."

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying,'^ Nothing
amuses me more th^Tx the easy manner with which everybody
settles the abunda ace of those who ha^^e a great deal less than

1 88 r!MJV^FIELD PA1{K

themselves. You would look rather blank, Henr}', if youf
menus plaisirs were to be limited to seven hundred a year."

" Perhaps I might; but all that you know is entirely
comparative. Birthright and habit must settle the business.
Bertram is certainly well off for a cadet of even a baronet's
family. By the time he is four or five and twenty he will
have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for it/'

Miss Crawford could have said that there would be a
something to do and to suffer for it, which she could not
think lightly of; but she checked herself and let it pass;
and tried to look calm and unconcerned when the two
gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

" Bertram," said Henry Crawford, I shall make a point
of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon.
I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner.
When is it to be? Miss Price, will not you join me in en-
couraging your cousin ! Will not you engage to attend with
your eyes steadil}^ fixed on him the whole time — as I shall
do — not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down
any sentence pre-eminently beautiful? We w411 provide
ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When will it be ? You
must preach at Mansfield, you know, that Sir Thomas and
Lady Bertram may hear you."

" I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,"
said Edmund; " for you would be more likely to disconcert
me, and I should be more sorry to see you trying at it than
almost any other man."

" Will he not feel this? " thought Fanny. No, he can
feel nothing as he ought."

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers
attracting each other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a
whist table was formed after tea — formed really for the
amusement of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife, though it was
not to be supposed so — and Miss Crawford took her harp,
she had nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity
remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when
Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or
observation, which she could not avoid answering. Miss
Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed to be in a
humour for anything but music. With that she soothed
herself and amused her friend.

mAHSFIELD PA%K 189

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders,
coming upon her Hke a blow that had been suspended, and
still hoped uncertain and at a distance, was felt with re-
sentment and mortification. She was very angry with him.
She had thought her influence more. She had begun to think
of him ; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost
decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his
own cool feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious
views, no true attachment, by fixing himself in a situation
which he must know she would never stoop to. She would
learn to match him in his indifference. She would henceforth
admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate
amusement. If he could so command his affections, her^s
should do her no harm.

CH^PTE%^XXIV

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next
morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield, and having
sent for his hunters, and written a few lines of explanation
to the Admiral, he looked round at his sister as he sealed and
threw the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of the
rest of the family, said, with a smile, " And how do you think
I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not
hunt ? I am grown too old to go out more than three times
a-week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and
what do you think it is.^ "

" To walk and ride with me, to be sure."

" Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but
that would be exercise only to my body, and I must take
care of my mind. Besides, that would be all recreation and
indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of labour, and I do
not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make
Fanny Price in love with me."

Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be
satisfied with her two cousins."

" But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without
making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not
seem properly aware of her claims to notice. When we

190 mA3<^FIELD PA%K

talked of her last night, you none of you seemed sensible of
the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks
within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and
therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a
different creature from what she was in the autumn. She
was then merely a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but
she is now absolutely pretty. I used to tliink she had neither
complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of her's,
so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there
is decided beauty ; and from what I observed of her eyes and
mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression
enough v/hen she has anything to express. And then, her
air, her manner, her tout ensemble, is so indescribably
improved! She must be grown two inches, at least, since
October.''

" Phoo ! phoo ! This is only because there were no tall
women to compare her with, and because she has got a new
gown, and you never saw her so well dressed before. She
is just what she was in October, believe me. The truth is,
that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody. I have always thought
her pretty — not strikingly pretty — but * pretty enough,' as
people say; a sort of beauty that grows on one. Her eyes
should be darker, but she has a sweet smile ; but as for this
wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all be
resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody
else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation
with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment
to her beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your
ov/n idleness and folly."

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon
afterwards said, " I do not quite know what to make of Miss
Fanny. I do not understand her. I could not tell what she
would be at yesterday. What is her character.? Is she
solemn? Is she queer.? Is she prudish? Why did she
draw back and look so grave at me ? I could hardly get her
to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my
Kfe, trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill ! Never met
with a girl who looked so grave on me ! I must try to get the
better of this. Her looks say, * I will not like you, I am
determined not to like you; * and I say she shall."

mA3<SFIELb PA'llK 191

" Foolish fellow I And so this is her attraction after all !
This it is, her not caring about you, which gives her such a
soft skin, and makes her so much taller, and produces all these
charms and graces 1 I do desire that you will not be making
her really unhappy; a little love, perhaps, may animate and
( do her good, but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she
is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great deal
of feeling.''

" It can be but for a fortnight,*' said Henry; " and if a
fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution which
nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm, dear
little soul! I only want her to look kindly on me, to give
me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by herself
wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk
to her ; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions
aad pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel
when I go away that she shall be never happy again. I want
nothing more."

Moderation itself ! " said Mary. " I can have no scruples
now. Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavour-
ing to recommend yourself, for we are a great deal together."

And without attempting any further remonstrance, she
left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart
been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might
have been a little harder than she deserved; for although
there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of
eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to
be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that
talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no
inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that
with so much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste
as belonged to her, she could have escaped heart-whole from
the courtship (though the courtship only of a fortnight) of
such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some previous
ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been
engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of
another and dis-esteem of him could give to the peace of
mind he was attacking, his continued attentions — continued,
but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more
to the gentleness and delicacy of her character — obliged her
very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She had by no

192

means forgotten the past^ and she thought as ill of him a?
-ever; but she felt his powers : he was entertaining; and hi
manners were so improved^ so polite, so seriously an
blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to be civil to hi"
in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at t
end of those few days, circumstances arose which had
tendency rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inas
much as they gave her a degree of happiness which must
dispose her to be pleased with everybody. Wilham, her
brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in
England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few
hurried happy lines, written as the ship came up Channel,
and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left the
Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when Crawford walked
up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would
bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over
this letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance
to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly
dictating in reply.

It was but the day before, that Crawford had made himself
thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become at
all aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a
ship, but the interest then excited had been very properly
lively, determining him on his return to town to apply for
information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's
return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck
which attended his early examination of ship news the next
morning, seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out
such a method of pleasing her, as well as of his dutiful
attention to the Admiral, in having for many years taken in
the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence.
He proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first
feelings, of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were
already given. But his intention, the kindness of his
intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully
and warmly^ for she was elevated beyond the common
timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them. There
■could be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immedi-
ately, for he was still only a midshipman; and as his parents,

{ma:hsfield

^rom living on the spot, must already hav.
^eing him perhaps daily, his direct holida^
istice be instantly given to the sister, who
'^st cbrrespondent through a period of seven years,
cle who had done most for his support and advance,
'd accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very ea.
'ly for his arrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely
:en days had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation
of her first dinner visit, when she found herself in an agitation
of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the
stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring
her a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there
being neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment
of meeting, she was with him as he entered the house, and the
first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption and no
witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening
the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly
what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving
at, as each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity
with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where
she was, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the
noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir
Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly
a very different person from the one he had equipped seven
years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance,
and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners^
and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitated
happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty
minutes of expectation, and the first of fruition ; it was some
time even before her happiness could be said to make her
happy, before the disappointment inseparable from the
alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him
the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had
been yearning to do, through many a past year. That time,
however, did gradually come, forwarded by an affection on
his side as warm as her own, and much less incumbered by
refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object of his
love, but it was a love v/hich his stronger spirits, and bolder

G

^FIELD PA%K

natural for him to express as to feel. On
xey were walking about together with true
^nd every succeeding morrow renewed a tete-a-
jn Sir Thomas could not but observe with com-
^y, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.
excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any
aiarked or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration
of her in the last iew months had excited, Fanny had never
known so much fdicity in her life, as in this unchecked, equal,
fearless intercourse with the brother and friend, who was
opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears,
plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly
earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion ; who could
give her direct and minute information of the father and
mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very seldom heard;
who was interested in all the comforts and all the little hard-
ships of her home, at Mansfield; ready to think of every
member of that home as she directed, or differing only by a
less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt
Norris, and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of
the whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years,
could be gone over again, and every former united pain |
and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection. An
advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the j
conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same
family, the same blood, with the same first associations and
habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which ,
no subsequent connections can supply ; and it must be by a
long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no
subsequent connection can justify, if such precious remains
of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too
often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost
everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William
and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and
freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by
no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and
absence only in its increase. i
An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion |
of all who had hearts to value anything good. Henry
Crawford was as much struck with it as any. He honoured
the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which

t

1

cma:ksfield pa%k 195

led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's
head, Do you know, I begin to Hke that queer fashion
already, though when I first heard of such things being done
in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown,
and the other women, at the Commissioner's, at Gibraltar,
appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad; but
Fanny can reconcile me to anything; " and saw, with XwkXj
admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her
eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her
brother was describing any of the imminent hazards, or
terrific scenes, which such a p^^riod, at sea, must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste
enough to value. Fanny's attractions increased — increased
two-fold ; for the sensibility which beautified her complexion
and illumined her countenance was an attraction in itself.
He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart.
She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to
be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her
young, unsophisticated mind! She interested him more
than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His
stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker.
His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but
the chief object in seeking them was to understand the
recitor, to know the young man by his histories; and he
listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satis-
faction, seeing in them the proof of good principles, pro-
fessional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness,
everything that could deserve or promise well. Young as he
was, William had already seen a great deal. He had been
in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies; in the Mediter-
ranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour
of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known
every variety of danger which sea and war together could
offer. With such means in his power he had a right to
be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about
the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls
of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her
nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody
else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear
of such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her

I

196 3\^IA:KS FIELD PA%K.

eyes from her work to say, " Dear me ! how disagreeable !
I wonder anybody can ever go to sea."

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He
longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered
as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he
felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty,
had gone through such bodily hardships, and given such
proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exer-
tion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence
appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a
William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way
to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect and
happy ardour, instead of what he was !

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused
from the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it,
by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next
day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man of
fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of
conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige. With
spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything, William ex-
pressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could mount
him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with
only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew
better than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some
alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared for William;
by no means convinced by all that he could relate of his
own horsemanship in various countries, of the scrambling
parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses
and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from
dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the management
of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he
returned safe and well, without accident or discredit, could
she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that obligation
to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse, which he had fully
intended it should produce. When it was proved, however,
to have done William no harm, she could allow it to be a
kindness, and even reward the owner with a smile when the
animal was one minute tendered to his use again; and the
next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to
be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he
remained in Northamptonshire.

3liA:K§FIELD PA^ 197

CH^APTE'R^XXF

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more
nearly restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any
member of the old intimacy had thought ever likely to be
again. The return of Henry Crawford, and the arrival of
William Price, had much to do with it, but much was still
owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the neigh-
bourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now dis-
engaged from the cares, which had pressed on him at first,
was at leisure to find the Grants and their young inmates
really worth visiting; and though infinitely above scheming
or contriving for any the most advantageous matrimonial
establishment that could be among the apparent possi-
bilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a
littleness the being quick-sighted on such points, he could
not avoid perceiving, in a grand and careless way, that
Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing his niece — ^nor
perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more
willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parson-
age, when the general invitation was at last hazarded, after
many debates and many doubts as to whether it were worth
while, because Sir Thomas seemed so ill inclined, and Lady
Bertram was so indolent ! " proceeded from good breeding
and good-will alone, and had nothing to do with Mr. Crawford,
but as being one in an agreeable group; for it was in the
course of that very visit, that he first began to think, that any
one in the habit of such idle observations would have thought
that Mr. Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being
composed in a good proportion of those who would talk and
tl^ose who would listen; and the dinner itself was elegant
aiAd plentiful, according to the usual style of the Grants, and
tCjO much according to the usual habits of all to raise any
er^iotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold either
the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience,
ard who did always contrive to experience some evil from
thji passing of the servants behind her chair, and to bring

198 OdASiSFIELD PA%K

away some fresh conviction of its being impossible among
so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was founds according to the predetermina-
tion of Mrs. Grant and her sister, that after making up the
whist table there would remain sufficient for a round game,
and everybody being as perfectly complying and without a
choice as on such occasions they always are, speculation was
decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram soon
found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for
her own choice between the games, and being required either
to draw a card for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily
Sir Thomas was at hand.

What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation;
which will amuse me most? "

Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended
speculation. He was a whist player himself, and perhaps
might feel that it would not much amuse him to have her for
a partner.

" Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer; then
speculation, if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing
about it, but Fanny must teach me."

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protesta-
tions of her own equal ignorance; she had never played the
game nor seen it played in her life; and Lady Bertram felt
a moment's indecision again; but upon everybody's assuring
her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the easiest
game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward
with a most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her
ladyship and Miss Price, and teach them both, it was so
settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs.
Grant being seated at the table of prime intellectual state and
dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's direction,
were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement
for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his
hands full of business, having two persons' cards to manage
as well as his own; for though it was impossible for Fanny
not to feel herself mistress of the rules of the game in three
minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice,
and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition
with William, was a work of some difficulty ; and as for Lady
Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and

31A3<^FIELD PA%K 199

fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough to
keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began,
must direct her in whatever was to be done with them to the
end of it.

He was in high spirits^ doing everything with happy ease,
and pre-eminent in all the lively turns, quick resources, and
playful impudence that could do honour to the game; and
the round table was altogether a very comfortable contrast
to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and
success of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough
for the time his measured manner needed ; and very little of
her state could be known till Mrs. Grant was able, at the end
of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her compliments.

I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."

Oh dear, yes ! Very entertaining, indeed. A very odd
game. I do not know what it is all about. I am never to
see my cards ; and Mr. Crawford does all the rest."

Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking
the opportunity of a little languor in the game, I have never
told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home."
They had been hunting together, and were in the midst of a
good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when his
horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had
been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back.
" I told you I lost my way after passing that old farm-house,
\vith the yew-trees, because I can never bear to ask; but I
have not told you that, with my usual luck — for I never do
wrong without gaining by it — I found myself in due time
in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was
suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field,
ill the midst of a retired little village between gently rising
hills ; a small stream before me to be forded, a church stand-
ing on a sort of knoll to my right — which church was strikingly
large and handsome for the place, and not a gentleman or
half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting one — to be
presumed the Parsonage — within a stone's throw of the said
knoll and church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton
Lacey."

It sounds like it," said Edmund; but which way did
you turn after passing SewelFs farm? "

200 a4A3^FIELD PA%K

" I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions;
though were I to answer all that you could put in the course
of an hour, you would never be able to prove that it was not
Thornton Lacey — for such it certainly was."

" You inquired then? "

" No, I never inquire. But I told a man mending a hedge
that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."

" You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever
told you half so much of the place."

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as
Miss Crawford well knew; and her interest in a negotiation
for William Price's knave increased.

" Well," continued Edmund, " and how did you like what
you saw? "

Very much, indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There
will be work for five summers at least before the place is
live-able."

No, no, not so bad as that. The farm-yard must be
moved, I grant you; but I am not aware of anything else.
The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed,
there may be a very tolerable approach to it."

The farm-yard must be cleared away entirely, and
planted up to shut out the blacksmith's shop. The house
must be turned to front the east instead of the north; the
entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be on that side,
where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be
done. And there must be your approach, through what is at
present the garden. You must make a new garden at what
is now the back of the house; which will be giving it the
best aspect in the world, sloping to the s -uth-east. The
ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards up
the lane, between the church and the house, in order to loon
about me; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be
easier. The meadows beyond what will he the garden, as we.1
as what now is, sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the
north-east, that is, to the principal road through the village,
must be all laid together of course ; very pretty meadows they
are, finely sprinkled with timber. They belong to the living I
suppose ; if not, you must purchase them. Then the streaai
• — something must be done with the stream ; but I could not
quite determine what. I had two or three ideas."

3\4A3<SFIELD PA%K 201

" And I have two or three ideas also/' said Edmund, " and
one of them is, that very Httle of your plan for Thornton
Lacey will ever be put in practice. I must be satisfied with
rather less ornament and beauty. I think the house and
premises may be made comfortable, and given the air of a
gentleman's residence without any very heavy expense, and
that must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care
about me.''

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain
tone of voice, and a certain half-look attending the last ex-
pression of his hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with
William Price; and securing his knave at an exorbitant rate,
exclaimed, " There, I will stake my last like a woman of
spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not born to sit still
and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be from not
striving for it."

The game was her's, and only did not pay her for what she
had given to secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Craw-
ford began again about Thornton Lacey.

My plan may not be the best possible; I had not many
minutes to form it in: but you must do a good deal. The
place deserves it, and you will find yourself not satisfied with
much less than it is capable of. (Excuse me, your ladyship
must not see your cards. There, let them lie just before you.)
The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it the
air of a gentleman's residence. That will be done by the
removal of the farm-yard; for, independent of that terrible
nuisance, I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself
so much the air of a gentleman's residence, so much the look
of a something above a mere parsonage house; above the
expenditure of a few hundreds a-year. It is not a scrambling
collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs as windows ;
it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square
farm-house ; it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house,
such as one might suppose a respectable old country family
had lived in from generation to generation, through two cen-
turies at least, and were now spending from two to three
I thousand a year in." Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund
; agreed to this. The air of a gentleman's residence, there-
f fore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is
capable of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram

202 SHADiSFIELD PA\K

bids a dozen for that queen ; no, no, a dozen is more than it
is worth. Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen. She will
have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some such
improvements as I have suggested, (I do not really require
you to proceed upon my plan, though, by-the-bye, I doubt
anybody's striking out a better,) — you may give it a higher
character. You may raise it into a place. From being the
mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by judicious im-
provement, the residence of a man of education, taste,
modem manners, good connections. All this may be
stamped on it; and that house receive such an air as to make
its owner be set down as the great landholder of the parish,
by every creature travelling the road; especially as there is
no real squire's house to dispute the point; a circumstance,
between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a situation
in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.
You think with me, I hope — (turning with a softened voice
to Fanny). Have you ever seen the place? "

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest
in the subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was
driving as hard a bargain, and imposing on her as much as he
could; but Crawford pursued with No, no, you must not
part with the queen. You have bought her too dearly, and
your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,
hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the
queen. She is quite determined. The game will be yours,"
turning to her again — " it will certainly be yours."

" And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said
Edmund, smiling at her. "Poor Fanny! not allowed to
cheat herself as she wishes ! "

" Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes after-
wards, you know Henry to be such a capital improver,
that you cannot possibly engage in anything of the sort at
Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only think
how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand
things were produced there by our all going with him one hot
day in August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius
take fire. There we went, and there we came home again;
and what was done there is not to be told ! "

Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with
an expression more than grave — even reproachful; but on

mACiSFIELD PA%K 203

catching his, were instantly withdrawn. With something of
consciousness, he shook his head at his sister, and laughingly
replied, " I cannot say there was much done at Sotherton;
but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each
other, and bewildered." As soon as a general buz gave him
shelter, he added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny,
^' I should be sorry to have my powers of planning judged of
by the day at Sotherton. I see things very differently now.
Do not think of me as I appeared then."

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just
then in the happy leisure which followed securing the odd
trick by Sir Thomas's capital play and her own, against Dr.
and Mrs. Grant's great hands, she called out, in high good-
humour, " Sotherton! Yes, that is a place, indeed, and we
had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of
luck : but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs.
Rushworth will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for
your being kindly received by both. Your cousins are not
of a sort to forget their relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a
most amiable man. They are at Brighton now, you know;
in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine for-
tune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the
distance, but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not
very far off, you ought to go over, and pay your respects to
them ; and I could send a little parcel by you that I want to
get conveyed to your cousins."

I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost
by Beachey Head; and if I could get so far, I could not
expect to be welcome in such a smart place as that — poor
scrubby midshipman as I am."

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affa-
bility he might depend on, when she was stopped by Sir
Thomas's saying with authority, "I do not advise your
going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon have
more convenient opportunities of meeting ; but my daughters
would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will
find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the
connections of our family as his own."

" I would rather find him private secretary to the First
Lord than anything else," was William's only answer, in an
under voice, not meant to reach far, and the subject dropped.

204 CMJO^FIELD PA^IQC

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr.
Crawford's behaviour; but when the whist table broke up at
the end of the second rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs.
Norris to dispute over their last play, he became a looker-on
at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions, or
rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme
about Thornton Lacey ; and not being able to catch Edmund's
ear, was detailing it to his fair neighbour with a look of con-
siderable earnestness. His scheme was to rent the house
himself the following winter, that he might have a home of
his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for
the use of it in the hunting season (as he was then telling her),
though that consideration had certainly some weight, feeling
as he did that, in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness,
it was impassible for him and his horses to be accommodated
where they now were without material inconvenience; but
his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend upon
one amusement or one season of the year; he had set his
heart upon having a something there that he could come to
at any time, a little homestall at his command, where all the
holidays of his year might be spent, and he might find him-
self continuing, improving, and perfecting that friendship and
intimacy with the Mansfield Park family w^hich was increasing
in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not
offended. There was no want of respect in the young man's
address; and Fanny's reception of it was so proper and
modest, so calm and uninviting, that he had nothing to cen-
sure in her. She said little, assented only here and there, and
betrayed no inclination either of appropriating any part of
the compliment to herself, or of strengthening his \dews in
favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was
observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same
subject to Sir Thomas, in a more every-day tone, but still
with feeling.

" I want to be your neighbour. Sir Thomas, as you have,
perhaps, heard me telling Miss Price. May I hope for your
acquiescence, and for your not influencing your son against
such a tenant? "

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, It is the only w^ay,
sir, in which I could not wish you established as a permanent

{MADiSFIELD FA%^ 205

neighbour; but I hope^ and believe, that Edmund will
occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I
saying too much? "

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going
on; but, on understanding the question, was at no loss for
an answer.

Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But,
Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a
friend. Consider the house as half your own every winter,
and we will add to the stables on your own improved plan,
and with all the improvements of your improved plan that
may occur to you this spring."

We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas. " His
going, though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome con-
traction of our family circle; but I should have been deeply
mortified if any son of mine could reconcile himself to doing
less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have thought
much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants
and claims which can be known only by a clergyman con-
stantly resident, and which no proxy can be capable of satis-
fying to the same extent. Edmund might, in the common
phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might read
prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park; he
might ride over every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited,
and go through divine service ; he might be the clergyman of
Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hours, if
that would content him. But it will not. He knows that
human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can
convey ; and that if he does not live among his parishioners,
and prove himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher
and friend, he does very little either for their good or his
own."

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.
I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, " that Thornton
Lacey is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I
should not be happy to wait on Mr. Crawford as occupier."
Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.
Sir Thomas," said Edmund, " undoubtedly understands
the duty of a parish priest. We must hope his son may prove
that he knows it too."
Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really

2o6 3^J:J\SFIELD pa%k

produce on Mr. Crawford^ it raised some awkward sensations
in two of the others, two of his most attentive listeners —
Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of whom, having never
before understood that Thornton was so soon and so com-
pletely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on
what it would be not to see Edmund every day; and the
other, startled from the agreeable fancies she had been pre-
viously indulging on the strength of her brother's description,
no longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a future
Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the clergyman, and
see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and occasional
residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering
Sir Thomab, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this,
and suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance
which his character txiA manner commanded, and from not
daring to relieve herself by a single attempt at throwing
ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of her speculation was over for that hour.
It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed;
and she was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion,
and be able to refresh her spirits by a change of place and
neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round
the fire, and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny
were the most detached. They remained together at the
otherwise deserted card-table, talking very comfortably, and
not thinking of the rest, till some of the rest began to think
of them. Henry Crawford's chair was the first to be given
a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them
for a few minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by
Sir Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

" This is the assembly night," said William. If I were
at Portsmouth I should be at it, perhaps."

" But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William.^ "

" No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of
Portsmouth and of dancing, too, when I cannot have you.
And I do not know that there would be any good in going to
the assembly, for I might not get a partner. The Portsmouth
girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a com-
mission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman.
One is nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they

mJD^SFIELD PA%K 207

are grown up amazing fine girls, but they will hardly speak
to me, because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant."

"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William (her
own cheeks in a glow of indignation as she spoke). It is not
worth minding. It is no reflection on you ; it is no more
than what the greatest admirals have all experienced, more
or less, in their time. You must think of that, you must try
to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which
fall to every sailor's share, like bad weather and hard living,
only with this advantage, that there will be an end to it,
that there will come a time when you will have nothing of
that sort to endure. When you are a lieutenant ! only think,
William, when you are a lieutenant, how little you will care
for any nonsense of this kind."

" I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny.
Everybody gets made but me."

"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so
desponding. My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will
do everything in his power to get you m.ade. He knows, as
well as you do, of what consequence it is."

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to
them than she had any suspicion of, and each found it
necessary to talk of something else.

" Are you fond of dancing, Fanny

" Yes, very; only I am soon tired."

** I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance.
Have you never any balls at Northampton.? I should like
to see you dance, and I'd dance with you if you would, for
nobody would know who I was here, and I should like to be
your partner once more. We used to jump about together
many a time, did not we ? when the hand-organ was in the
street I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare
say you are a better." And turning to his uncle, who was
now close to them, " Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir.^^ "

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did
not know which way to look, or how to be prepared for the
answer. Some very grave reproof, or at least the coldest
expression of indifference, must be coming to distress her
brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the contrary,
it was no worse than, " I am sorry to say that I am unable
to answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance

2o8 3\dA:HSFIELD PA%K

since she was a little girl ; but I trust we shall both think she
acquits herself like a gentlewoman when we do see her, which,
perhaps, we may have an opportunity of doing ere long."

I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance^
Mr. Price/' said Henry Crawford, leaning forward, " and
will engage to answer every inquiry which you can make on
the subject, to your entire satisfaction. But I believe
(seeing Fanny looked distressed) it must be at some other
time. There is one person in company who does not like to
have Miss Price spoken of."

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was
equally true that he would now have answered for her gliding
about with quiet, light elegance, and in admirable time;
but in fact he could not for the life of him recall what her
dancing had been, and rather took it for granted that she had
been present than remembered anything about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and
Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, prolonged the con-
versation on dancing in general, and was so well engaged in
describing the balls of Antigua, and listening to what his
nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing which
had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard his
carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of
it by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.

" Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are
going. Do nol you see your aunt is going ? Quick, quick !
I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox waiting. You should
always remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir
Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come
back for you, and Edmund and William."

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own
arrangement, previously communicated to his wife and
sister; but that seemed forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must
fancy that she settled it all herself.

Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for
the shawl which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant
to bring and put round her shoulders was seized by Mr.
Crawford's quicker hand, and she was obliged to be indebted
to his more prominent attention.

ma:ksfield pa'rk 209

CHAPTER XXVI

William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a
momentary impression on his uncle. The hope of an oppor-
tunity, which Sir Thomas had then given, was not given to
be thought of no more. He remained steadily inclined to
gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody else who
imight wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
iyoung people in general; and having thought the matter
over, and taken his resolution in quiet independence, the
result of it appeared the next morning at breakfast, when,
after recalling and commending what his nephew had said,
he added, I do not like, William, that you should leave
Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give
me pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls
at Northampton. Your cousins have occasionally attended
them; but they would not altogether suit us now. The
fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I believe we must
not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would
be more eligible; and if —

Ah, my dear Sir Thomas ! " interrupted Mrs. Norris,
" I knew what was coming. I knew what you were going
to say. If dear Julia were at home, or dearest Mrs. Rush-
worth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion for such
a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a
dance at Mansfield. I know you would. If they were at
home to grace the ball, a ball you would have this very
Christmas. Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle ! "

My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing,
" have their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very
happy; but the dance which I think of giving at Mansfield
will be for their cousins. Could we be all assembled, our
satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the
absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement."

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision
in his looks, and her surprise and vexation required some
minutes' silence to be settled into composure. A ball at such
a time! His daughters absent and herself not consulted!
There was comfort, however, soon at hand. She must be the

210 mA3<SFIELD FA%K

doer of everything : Lady Bertram would of course be
spared all thought and exertion^ and it would all fall upon
her. She should have to do the honours of the evening;
and this reflection quickly restored so much of her good
humour as enabled her to join in with the others^ before
their happiness and thanks were all expressed.

Edmund^ William^ and Fanny did^, in their different ways^
look and speak as much grateful pleasure in the promised
ball as Sir Thomas could desire. Edmund's feelings were
for the other two. His father had never conferred a favour
or shown a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented^
and had no objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for
its giving her very little trouble; and she assured him that
she was not at all afraid of the trouble; indeed, she could
not imagine there would be any."

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms
he would think fittest to be used, but found it all pre-arranged ;
and when she would have conjectured and hinted about the
day, it appeared that the day was settled too. Sir Thomas
had been amusing himself with shaping a very complete
outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen
quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from
whom he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the
shortness of the notice, to collect young people enough to
form twelve or fourteen couple: and could detail the con-
siderations which had induced him to fix on the 22d as the
most eligible day. William was required to be at Portsmouth
on the 24th; the 22d would therefore be the last day of his
visit ; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to
fix on any earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied
with thinking just the same, and with having been on the
point of proposing the 22d herself, as by far the best day for
the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening
a proclaimed thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations
were sent with dispatch, and many a young lady went to bed
that night with her head full of happy cares as well as Fanny.
To her, the cares were sometimes almost beyond the happi- I
ness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of I
choice, and no confidence in her own taste, the how she

mAHSFIELD PA%K 2 1 1

should be dressed/' was a point of painful solicitude; and the
almost solitary ornament in her possession, a very pretty
amber cross which William had brought her from Sicily^
was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit
of ribbon to fasten it to ; and though she had worn it in that
manner once, would it be allowable at such a time, in the
midst of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the
other young ladies would appear in? And yet not to wear
it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but
the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore
not to wear the cross might be mortifying him. These were
anxious considerations; enough to sober her spirits even
under the prospect of a ball given principally for her gratifi-
cation.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram
continued to sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from
them. She had some extra visits from the housekeeper, and
her maid was rather hurried in making up a new dress for
her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about;
but all this gave her no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
there was, in fact, no trouble in the business.''
Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares; his
mind being deeply occupied in the consideration of two
important events now at hand, which were to fix his fate in
life — ordination and matrimony — events of such a serious
character as to make the ball, which would be very quickly
followed by one of them, appear of less moment in his eyes
than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd
he was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same
situation as himself, and they were to receive ordination in
the course of the Christmas week. Half his destiny would
then be determined, but the other half might not be so very
smoothly wooed. His duties would be established, but.
the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward those
duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind,,
but he was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss
Crawford's. There were points on which they did not quite
agree; there were moments in which she did not seem
propitious; and though trusting altogether to her affection^
so far a.s to be resolved (almost resolved) on bringing it to a
decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of

/

212 mA3iSFIELD PA%K

business before him were arranged^ and he knew what he
had to offer her^. he had many anxious feelings^ many doubt-
ing hours as to the result. His conviction of her regard for
him was sometimes very strong; he could look back on a
long course of encouragement^ and she was as perfect in
disinterested attachment as in everything else. But as other
times doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and
when he thought of her acknowledged disinclination for
privacy and retirement^ her decided preference of a London
life, what could he expect but a determined rejection?
unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on
his side as conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love
him well enough to forego what had used to be essential
points? Did she love him well enough to make them no
longer essential? And this question, which he was con-
tinually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with
a " Yes/' had sometimes its " No."

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this
circumstance the " no " and the yes " had been very
recently in alternation. He had seen her eyes sparkle as
she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which claimed a long
visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in
engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might
convey her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure
of such a journey with an animation which had no " in
every tone. But this had occurred on the first day of its
being settled, within the first hour of the burst of such enjoy-
ment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was
before her. He had since heard her express herself differently,
with other feelings, more chequered feelings; he had heard
her tell Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret;
that she began to believe neither the friends nor the pleasures
she was going to were worth those she left behind ; and that
though she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy
herself when once away, she was already looking forward
to being at Mansfield again. Was there not a " yes " in
all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-
arrange, Edmund could not, on his own account, think ver^

31A3<^FIELD PA^ 213

much of the evening which the rest of the family were looking
forward to with a more equal degree of strong interest.
Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the evening
was to him of no higher value than any other appointed
meeting of the two families might be. In every meeting
there was a hope of receiving further confirmation of Miss
Crawford's attachment; but the whirl of a ball-room,
perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the excitement
or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for
the two first dances, was all the command of individual
happiness which he felt in his power, and the only prepara-
tion for the ball which he could enter into, in spite of all that
was passing around him on the subject, from morning till
night.

Thursday was the day of the ball, and on Wednesday
morning, Fanny, still unable to satisfy herself as to what she
ought to wear, determined to seek the counsel of the more
enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and her sister, whose
acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless ; and
as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she
had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked
down to the Parsonage- without much fear of wanting an
opportunity for private discussion; and the privacy of such
a discussion was a most important part of it to Fanny, being
more than half ashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage,
just setting out to call on her, and as it seemed to her, that
her friend, though obliged to insist on turning back, was
unwilling to lose her walk, she explained her business at once,
and observed, that if she would be so kind as to give her
opinion, it might be all talked over as well without doors as
within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application,
and after a moment's thought urged Fanny's returning with
her in a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed
their going up into her room, where they might have a
comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant,
who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the
plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her
side for such ready and kind attention, they proceeded in
doors, and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting
subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her

214 mA:KSFIELD PA1{K

all her best judgment and taste, made everything easy by
her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by
her encouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander
parts — ''But what shall you have by way of necklace?"
said Miss Crawford. '' Shall not you wear your brother's
cross? And as she spoke she was undoing a small parcel,
which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met.
Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point;
she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to refrain
from wearing it. She was answered by having a small
trinket-box placed before her, and being requested to chuse
from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such had
been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and
such the object of her intended visit: and in the kindest
manner she now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross and
to keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to
obviate the scruples which were making Fanny start back
at first with a look of horror at the proposal.

You see what a collection I have," said she, " more
by half than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as
new. I offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive
the liberty, and oblige me."

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too
valuable. But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the
case with so much affectionate earnestness through all the
heads of William and the cross, and the ball, and herself, as
to be finally successful. Fanny found herself obliged to
yield, that she might not be accused of pride or indifference,
or some other littleness ; and having with modest reluctance ,
given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She j
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least
valuable; and was determined in her choice at last, by
fancying there was one necklace more frequently placed '
before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked ;
and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a i
plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped,
in fixing on this, to be chusing what ]\Iiss Crawford least
wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect appro-
bation; and hastened to complete the gift by putting the
necklace round her, and making her see how well it looked.
Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and

PA%K 215

excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly
pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would
rather perhaps have been obliged to some other person.
But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had
anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a
real friend. " When I wear this necklace I shall always
think of you/' said she, " and feel how very kind you were."

" You must think of somebody else, too, when you wear
that necklace,'* replied Miss Crawford. You must think
of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place. He gave
it to me, and with the necklace I make over to you all the
duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a family
remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without
bringing the brother too."

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have
returned the present instantly. To take what had been the
gift of another person, of a brother too, impossible ! i-t must
not be! and with an eagerness and embarrassment quite
diverting to her companion, she laid down the necklace again
on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another or
none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a
prettier consciousness. My dear child," said she, laughing,

what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim
the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly
by it? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered
by seeing round your lovely throat, an ornament which his
money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was
such a throat in the world? or perhaps — looking archly —
you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am
now doing is with this knowledge and at his desire? "

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a
thought.

Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but
without at all believing her, to convince me that you
suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment
as I have always found you, take the necklace and say no
more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not
make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure
you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is
always giving me something or other. I have such innumer-
able presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to

2i6 3\4A3<^FIELD PA%K

value, or for him to remember half. And as for this necklace^
I do not suppose I have worn it six times ; it is very pretty,
but I never think of it; and though you would be most
heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have
happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I
would rather part with and see in your possession than any
other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle
is not worth half so many words.''

Fanny dared not make any further opposition; and with
renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again,
for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which'
she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's
change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently
tried to please her; he was gallant, he was attentive, he was
something like what he had been to her cousins : he wanted,
she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had
cheated them ; and whether he might not have some concern
in this necklace — She could not be convinced that he had
not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless
as a woman and a friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of
what she had so much wished for did not bring much satis-
faction, she now walked home again, with a change rather
than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before.

CH^PTE^l XXVII

On reaching home, Fanny went immediately upstairs to
deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a
necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held
all her smaller treasures ; but on opening the door, what was
her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the
table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was
almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, |
and meeting her with something in his hand, " I beg your f
pardon for being here. I come to look for you, and after

3IJ3^FIELD PAIiJ 217

waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making
use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the
beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my
business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little
trifle: a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had
it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's
not being in town by several days so soon as I expected ; and
I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope
you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to con-
sult the simplicity of your taste ; but at any rate I know you
will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is,
a token of the love of one of your oldest friends."

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, over-
powered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could
attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish she
then called out, " Oh ! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop !

He turned back.
I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very
agitated manner; thanks are out of the question. I feel
much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in
thinking of me in such a way is beyond "

" If that is all you have to say, Fanny " smiling and

turning away again.

No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he
had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the
niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly
simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again,
" Oh, this is beautiful, indeed ! This is the very thing, pre-
cisely what I wished for ! This is the only ornament I have
ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross.
They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in
such an acceptable mom.ent. Oh, cousin, you do not know
I how acceptable it is."

My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too
much. I am most happy that you like the chain, and that
it should be here in time for to-morrow ; but your thanks are
far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in
' the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I
can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed.
1 It is without a drawback."

2i8 ^MAJiSFIELD PA%K

Upon such expressions of affection^ Fanny could have lived
an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after
waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her mind from
its heavenly flight, by saying, " But what is it that you want
to consult me about?

It was about the necklace, which she was now most
earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his appro-
bation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit,
and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was
so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss
Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of
conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the
superior power of one pleasure over his own mind, though it
might have its drawback. It was some time before she could
get his attention to her plan^ or any answer to her demand of
his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering
only now and then a few half sentences of praise ; but when
he did av/ake and understand, he was very decided in opposing
what she wished.

Return the necklace ! No, my dear Fanny, upon no
account. It would be mortifying her severely. There can
hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having any-
thing returned on our hands which we have given with a
reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a
friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which she has
shown herself so deserving of

''If it had been given to me in the first instance,' ' said
Fanny, ''I should not have thought of returning it; but
being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she
would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted? "

" She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at
least; and its having been originally her brother's gift makes
no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering,
nor you from taking it on that account, it ought not to pre-
vent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than
mine, and fitter for a ball-room."

" No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way,
and, for my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree
with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the
necklace."

" For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it be a sacri-

MAO<SFIELD PA%K 219

iice; I am sure you will, upon consideration, make that
sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been so studi-
ous of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions to you have
been — not more than you were justly entitled to, — I am the
last person to think that could he, but they have been invari-
able; and to be returning them with what must have some-
thing the air of ingratitude, though I know it could never
have the meaning, is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear
the necklace, as you are engaged to do, to-morrow evening,
and let the chain, which was not ordered with any reference
to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my
advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between
the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the
greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much
general resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy as
to make the few slight differences, resulting principally from
situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I
would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated,
his voice sinking a little, between the two dearest objects I
have on earth."

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tran-
quillise herself as she could. She was one of his two dearest;
that must support her. But the other : the first ! She had
never heard him speak so openly before, and though it told
her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab,
for it told of his own convictions and views. They were
decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab,
in spite of every long-standing expectation; and she was
obliged to repeat again and again, that she was one of his
two dearest, before the words gave her any sensation. Could
she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would be — oh,
how different would it be — how far more tolerable ! But he
was deceived in her; he gave her merits which she had not;
her faults were what they had ever been, but he saw them no
longer. Till she had shed many tears over this deception,
Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection
which followed could only be relieved by the influence of
fervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try
to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on
selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy

220 mADiSFIELD PA%K.

it a losSj a disappointment, would be a presumption for which
she had not words strong enough to satisfy her own humility.
To think of him as Miss Crawford might be justified in think-
ing, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing
under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend.
Why did such an idea occur to her even enough to be repro-
bated and forbidden ? It ought not to have touched on the
confines of her imagination. She would endeavour to be
rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's
character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a
sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined
to do her duty ; but having also many of the feelings of youth
and nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after making
all these good resolutions on the side of self-government,
she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun
writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and reading
with the tenderest emotion these words, My very dear
Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept — " locked it up
with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the
only thing approaching to a letter which she had ever
received from him ; she might never receive another ; it was
impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly
gratifying in the occason and the style. Two lines more
prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished
author — never more completely blessed the researches of the
fondest biographer. The enthusiasm of a woman's love is
even beyond the biographer's. To her, the hand-writing
itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness.
Never were such characters cut by any other human being,
as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave ! This specimen,
written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a
felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement
of My very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at
for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings
by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able,
in due time, to go down and resume her usual employments
near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observances
without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came ; and

opened with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed,
unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast
a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford to
William, stating that as he found himself obliged to go to
London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help
trying to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if
William could make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a

. day earlier than had been proposed, he would accept a place
in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to be in town by his.
uncle's accustomary late dinner hour, and William was
invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal
was a very pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the
idea of travelling post with four horses, and such a good-

! humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likening it to going up
with dispatches, was saying at once everything in favour of
its happiness and dignity which his imagination could sug-
gest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingfy
pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up
by the mail from Northampton the following night, which
would not have allowed him an hour's rest before he must
have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though this offer of
Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company,
she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue
of such a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas-
approved of it for another reason. His nephew's introduc-
tion to Admiral Crawford might be of service. The Admiral,
he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it was a very
joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning,
deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer bein^
himself to go away.

^ As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agita-
tions and fears to have half the enjoyment in anticipation
which she ought to have had, or must have been supposed
to have, by the many young ladies looking forward to the
same event in situations more at ease, but under circum^
stances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar gratification
than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known only by
name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the even-
mg. Who could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss
'Price had not been brought up to the trade of coming out;

222 mA^KSFlELD PA%K

and had she known in what light this ball was^ in general,
considered respecting her^ it would very much have lessened
her comfort by increasing the fears she already had, of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without much ob-
servation or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and
partners for about half the evening, to dance a little with
Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see
William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her
aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these
were the best of her hopes, they could not always prevail;
and in the course of a long morning, spent principally with
her two aunts, she was often under the influence of much less
sanguine views. William determined to make this last day
a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting;
Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the
Parsonage ; and left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris,
who was cross because the housekeeper would have her own
\vay with the supper, and whom she could not avoid though
the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to
think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent
off with a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards
her own room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if she
had been allowed no share in it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday;
it had been about the same hour that she had returned from
the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the Ea,st room. Sup-
pose I were to find him there again to-day!'' said she to
herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her. Starting
and looking up, she saw, across the lobby she had just reached,
Edmund, himself, standing at the head of a dift'erent stair-
case. He came towards her. You look tired and fagged,
Fanny. You have been walking too far."

No, I have not been out at all."

Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are
worse. You had better have gone out."

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no
answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness,
she believed he had soon ceased to think of her countenance.
He did not appear in spirits; something unconnected with

31ia:ksfield pa%k

her was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs together,
their rooms being on the same floor above.

" I come from Dr. Grant's/' said Edmund^ presently. You
may guess my errand there^ Fanny." And he looked so con-
scious^ that Fanny could think but of one errand, which
turned her too sick for speech. I wished to engage Miss
Crawford for the two first dances/' was the explanaton that
followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as
she found she was expected to speak, to utter something like
an inquiry as to the result.

Yes," he answered, she is engaged to me; but (with a
smile that did not sit easy) she says it is to be the last time
that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious. I
think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious ; but I would rather
not hear it. She never has danced with a clergyman, she
says, and she never will. For my own sake, I could wish
there had been no ball just at — I mean not this very week^
this very day; to-morrow I leave home."

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, I am very sorry
that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought to
be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so."

" Oh yes, yes 1 and it will be a day of pleasure. It will
all end right. I am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is
not that I consider the ball as ill-timed ; what does it signify ?
But, Fanny," stopping her, by taking her hand, and speaking
low and seriously, you know what all this means. You see
how it is ; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell
you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little.
You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her
manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it. I
know her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your own,
but the influence of her former companions makes her seem
— gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions, some-
times a tinge of wrong. She does not think evil, but she
speaks it, speaks it in playfulness ; and though I know it to
be playfulness, it grieves me to the soul."

The effect of education," said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. Yes, that uncle and
aunt! They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes,
Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner; it
appears as if the mind itself was tainted."

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and
therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, If you only
want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but
I am not qualified for an adviser. Do not ask advice of me,
I am not competent."

You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office,
but you need not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should
never ask advice; it is the sort of subject on which it had
better never be asked; and few, I imagine, do ask it, but
when they want to be influenced against their conscience. I
only want to talk to you."

One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care how
you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now, which here-
after you may be sorry for. The time may come "

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
Dearest Fanny! " cried Edmund, pressing her hand to
his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss
Crawford's, you are all considerate thought! But it is
unnecessary here. The time will never come. No such time
as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it most
improbable; the chances grow less and less; and even if it
should, there will be nothing to be remembered by either you
or me that we need be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed
of my own scruples; and if they are removed, it must be by
changes that will only raise her character the more by the
recollection of the faults she once had. You are the only
being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said;
but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear
me witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How
many a time have we talked over her little errors! You
need not fear me; I have almost given up every serious idea
of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell
me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without
the sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen.
He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings
than she had lately known, and with a brighter look, she
answered, Yes, cousin, I am convinced that you would be
incapable of anything else, though perhaps some might not.
I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say.
Do not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like."

t FHOFEBTY of Uiirt/-^'!

T iin6^«ef^S 6«sity

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of
a housemaid prevented any further conversation. For
Fanny's present comfort it was concluded, perhaps, at the
happiest moment: had he been able to talk another five
minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence.
But as it was, they parted with looks on his side of grateful
affection, and with some very precious sensations on her's.
She had felt nothing like it for hours. Since the first joy
from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn away, she
had been in a state absolutely their reverse; there had been
no comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything
was smiling. William's good fortune returned again upon
her mind, and seemed of greater value than at first. The
ball, too — such an evening of pleasure before her! It was
now a real animation; and she began to dress for it with
much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went
well ; she did not dislike her own looks ; and when she came
to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete,
for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would by
no means go through the ring of the cross. She had, to
oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for
the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having,
with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross— those
memorials of the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest
tokens so formed for each other by everything real and
imaginary — and put them round her neck, and seen and felt
how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able,
without an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's
necklace too. She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Craw-
ford had a claim; and when it was no longer to encroach on,
to interfere with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of
another, she could do her justice even with pleasure to her-
self. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left
her room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all
about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion
.with an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had really
pccurred to her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a
ball, might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's,
and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to

H

226 3\dA3^FIELD PA%K

assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chap-
man had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came
out of her room completely dressed, and only civilities were
necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as
much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.

CH^PTE^XXFIII

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room
when Fanny went down. To the former she was an interest-
ing object, and he saw with pleasure the general elegance of
her appearance, and her being in remarkably good looks.
The neatness and propriety of her dress was all that he would
allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her
leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her
beauty with very decided praise.

Yes," said Lady Bertram, " she looks very well. I sent
Chapman to her."

Look well! Oh, yes! " cried Mrs. Norris, " she has good
reason to look well with all her advantages; brought up in
this family as she has been, with'^^all the benefit of her cousins'
manners before her. Only think, my dear Sir Thomas, what
extraordinary advantages you and I have been the means of
giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of
is your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rush-
worth married. What would she have been if we had not
taken her by the hand? "

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to
table the eyes of the two young men assured him that the
subject might be gently touched again when the ladies with-
drew, with more success. Fanny saw that she was approved ;
and the consciousness of looking well made her look still
better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she
was soon made still happier; for in following her aunts out
of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door, said,
as she passed him, You must dance with me, Fanny; you
must keep two dances for me; any two that you like, except
the first." She had nothing more to wish for. She had

mAO^FIELD PA%K 227

hardly ever been in a state so nearly approaching ii^h spirits
in her life. Her cousin's former gaiety on the day of a ball
was no longer surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very
charming, and was actually practising her steps about the
drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the notice of
her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up in fresh arranging
and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed, that would have been at least lan-
guid under any other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness
still prevailed. It was but to think of her conversation with
Edmund; and what was the restlessness of Mrs. Norris.^
What were the yawns of Lady Bertram }

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the
sweet expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease
and enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about
and talked and laughed, and every moment had its pleasure
and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle in
Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the effort
so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests^
began really to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much
subdued : the sight of so many strangers threw her back into
herself; and besides the gravity and formality of the first
great circle, which the manners of neither Sir Thomas nor
Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was
introduced here and there by her uncle, and forced to be
spoken to, and to courtsey, and speak again. This was a
hard duty, and she was never summoned to it without looking
at William, as he walked about at his ease in the background
of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable
epoch. The stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before
their popular manners and more diffused intimacies: little
groups were formed, and everybody grew comfortable.
Fanny felt the advantage ; and, drawing back from the toils
of civility, would have been again most happy, could she
have kept her eyes from wandering between Edmund and
Mary Crawford. She looked all loveliness — and what might
not be the end of it ? Her own musings were brought to an
end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her thoughts

228 mAdi^FlELD PA%K

were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this
occasion was very much a-la-mortal^ finely chequered. To
be secure of a partner at first was a most essential good — for
the moment of beginning was now growing seriously near;
and she so little understood her own claims as to think that if
Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the
last to be sought after, and should have received a partner
only through a series of inquiry, and bustle,\and interference,
which would have been terrible ; but at the same time there
was .a pointedness in his manner of asking her which she did
not like, and she saw his eye glancing for a moment at her
necklace, with a smile — she thought there was a smile —
which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there
was no second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed
then to be only quietly agreeable, she could not get the better
of her embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of
his perceiving it, and had no composure till he turned away
to some one else. Then she could gradually rise up to the
genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary partner,
secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ball-room, she
found herself for the first time near Miss Crav/ford, whose
eyes and smiles were immediately and more unequivocally
directed as her brother's had been, and who was beginning to
speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story
over, hastened to give the explanation of the second neck-
lace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her
intended compliments and insinuations to Fanny were for-
gotten : she felt only one thing ; and her eyes, bright as they
had been before, shewing they could yet be brighter, she
exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he? Did Edmund?
That was like himself. No other man would have thought
of it. I honour him beyond expression." And she looked
around as if longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was
attending a party of ladies out of the room; and Mrs. Grant
coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each, they
followed with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking
long even of Miss Crawford's feelings. They were in the
ball-room, the violins were playing, and her mind was in a

31A3^FIELD PA%Ki 229.

flutter that forbad its fixing on anything serious. She must
watch the general arrangements^ and see how everything
was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she
were engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford/' was
exactly what he had intended to hear. Mr. Crawford was
not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her, saying some-
thing which discovered to Fanny that she was to lead the
way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to-
her before. Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the
evening, it had been as a matter of course that Edmund
would begin with Miss Crawford; and the impression was so
strong, that though her uncle spoke the contrary, she could
not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion
against Sir Thomas's, was a proof of the extremity of the
case; but such was her horror at the first suggestion, that
she could actually look him in the face and say that she hoped
it might be settled otherwise ; in vain, however ; Sir Thomas
smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too serious,
and said too decidedly — " It must be so, my dear," for her
to hazard another word; and she found herself the next
moment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room,,
and standing there to be joined by the rest of the dancers,,
couple after couple as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many
elegant young women! The distinction was too great. It
was treating her like her cousins ! And her thoughts flew to
those absent cousins with most unfeigned and truly tender
regret, that they were not at home to take their own place
in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which would
have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had
heard them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all
felicities ! And to have them away when it was given — and
for her to be opening the ball — and with Mr. Crawford too !
She hoped they would not envy her that distinction now ; but
when she looked back to the state of things in the autumn,
to what they had all been to each other when once dancing
in that house before, the present arrangement was almost
more than she could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to

230 ^US^FIELD PAT{K

Fanny, for the first dance at least: her partner was in excel-
lent spirits, and tried to impart them to her; but she was a
great deal too much frightened to have any enjoyment, till
she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young,
pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that
were not as good as graces, and there were few persons present
that were not disposed to praise her. She was attractive,
she was modest, she was Sir Thomas's niece, and she was
soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It was enough to
give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself v/as watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency; he
was proud of his niece; and without attributing all her
personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do, to her trans-
plantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with himself for
having supplied everything else : education and manners she
owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thom.as's thoughts as he
stood, and having in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a
general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him,
took an opportunity of stepping side to say something agree-
able of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he received it as
she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and polite-
ness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly
appearing to greater advantage on the subject than his lady
did soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa
very near, turned round before she began to dance, to
compliment her on Miss Price's looks.

" Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid
reply. Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to
her." Not but that she was really pleased to have Fanny
admired; but she was so much more struck with her own
kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could not get
it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of grati-
fying her by commendations of Fanny; to her, it was as the
occasion offered — '*Ah! ma'am, how much we want dear
Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night! " and Mrs. Norris paid
her with as many smiles and courteous w^ords as she had time
for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in
making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying
to move all the chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in
her intentions to please. She meant to be giving her little
heart a happy flutter^ and filling her with sensations of
delightful self-consequence; and misinterpreting Fanny's
blushes^ still thought she must be doing so^ when she went to
her after the two first dances^ and said^ with a significant
look^ Perhaps you can tell me why my brother goes to town
to-morrow ? He says he has business there^ but will not tell
me what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence !
But this is what we all come to. All are supplanted sooner
or later. Now^ I must apply to you for information. Pray,
what is Henry going for? "

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her em-
barrassment allowed.

" Well^ then/' replied Miss Crawford^ laughing, *^ I must
suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying your
brother, and of talking of you by the way."

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discon-
tent; while Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and
thought her over-anxious, or thought her odd, or thought her
anything rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry's atten-
tions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of
the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to do
with it. She would much rather not have been asked by him
again so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged
to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris about the
supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her at that part
of the evening. But it was not to be avoided: he made her
feel that she was the object of all; though she could not say
that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or
ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked
of William, he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even
a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still his atten-
tions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy when-
ever she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was
enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could walk
about with him and hear his account of his partners; she
was happy in knowing herself admired; and she was happy
in having the two dances with Edmund still to look forward
to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being
so eagerly sought after, that her indefinite engagement with

232 mA:KSFIELD PA%K

him was in continual perspective. She was happy even when
they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his
side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had
blessed the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happi-
ness sprung from being the friend with whom he could find
repose. " I am worn out with civility/' said he. I have
been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say.
But with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not
want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence."
Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness,
arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings
which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly
to be respected, and they went down their two dances to-
gether with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any
looker-on, that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for
his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss
Crawford had been in gay spirits when they first danced
together, but it was not her gaiety that could do him good;
it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards, for
he found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had
absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging.
They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned,
she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual
vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observ-
ing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It
was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.
Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very
conviction that he did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination
and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir
Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the
shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side,
gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that
time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

" Poor Fanny! " cried William, coming for a moment to
visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life,
" how soon she is knocked up ! Why, the sport is but just
begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. Hov?
can you be tired so soon? "

3IJ^FIELD PA%K

" So soon ! my good friend/' said Sir Thomas^ producing
his watch with all necessary caution; ''it is three o'clock,
and your sister is not used to these sort of hours."

Well^ then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before
I go. Sleep as long as you can^ and never mind me."

^'Oh! William."
What ! Did she think of being up before you set off? "

" Oh ! yes, sir/' cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat
to be nearer her uncle; I must get up and breakfast with
him. It will be the last time, you know ; the last morning."

You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be
gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for
him at half-past nine? "

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears
in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious Well,
well ! " which was permission.

Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William, as the
latter was leaving them, and I shall be punctual, for there
will be no kind sister to get up for w^." And in a lower tone
to Fanny, " I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from.
Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very
different to-morrow."

After a short consideration. Sir Thomas asked Crawford
to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of
eating alone; he should himself be of it; and the readiness
with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that
the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very
ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr.
Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing
anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did
not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped
to have William all to herself the last morning. It would
have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her
wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring
within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to
have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place
at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed
to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than
to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a
little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately

3iA3<^FIELD PA'RK

to bed. Advise was his word, but it was the advice of
absolute power, and she had only to rise, and, with Mr.
Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping
at the entrance door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall,
" one moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and
take a last look at the five or six determined couple, who were
still hard at work ; and then, creeping slowly up the principal
staircase, pursued by the ceaseless cour try-dance, feverish
with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and
fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of every-
thing, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not
be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him,
that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough, or
he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing
her persuadableness.

CH^FTET^XXIX

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too;
the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Craw-
ford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and
pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked
back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to
grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle
kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the
deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender
enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and
mustard in William's plate, might but divide her feelings
with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and
cried con amore as her uncle intended, but it was con amore
fraternal and no other. \Villiam was gone, and she now felt
as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish
solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even
think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness
of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some

3iA3^FIELD PA%K, 235

little want of attention to her when they had been last
together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having
done and said and thought everything by William, that
was due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second
breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and
mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone.
Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which
she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt B€rtram ;
she must talk to somebody of the ball ; but her aunt had seen
so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that
it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of any-
body's dress or anybody's place at supper, but her ov/n.

She could not recollect what it was that she had heard
about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady
Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether
Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of
William, when he said he was the finest young man in the
room; somebody had whispered something to her; she had
forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were
her longest speeches and clearest communications: the rest
was only a languid Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he?
I did not see that; I should not know one from the other."
This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris's
sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home
with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there
was peace and good humour in their little party, though
it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day: I cannot think
what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram, when the
tea-things were removed. ^' I feel quite stupid. It must
be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do some-
thing to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards ;
I feel so very stupid."

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage
with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading
to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next
two hours beyond the reckonings of the game: — " And tliat
makes thirty-one ; four in hand and eight in crib. You are
to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you? " Fanny thought and
thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours had

236 mAO^FIELD PA%K

made in that room^ and all that part of the house. Last night
it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and
brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room
and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think
of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning
afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night
with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome
style, with all the heightenings of imagination and all the
laughs of playfulness, which are so essential to the shade of a
departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without
much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the
tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known
there for a whole day together, and he was gone on whom
the comfort and cheerfulness of every family meeting and
every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned to be
endured. He would soon be always gone; and she was
thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer
them without such wretched feelings as she had formerly
known.

We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observa-
tion on both the first and second day, as they formed their
very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration of
Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was said on the first
day than to drink their good health; but on the second it
led to something farther. V/illiam was kindly commended
and his promotion hoped for. And there is no reason to
suppose," added Sir Thomas, " but that his visits to us may
now be tolerably frequent. As to Edmund, we must learn
to do without him. This will be the last winter of his belong-
ing to us, as he has done."

Yes," said Lady Bertram, " but I wish he was not
going away. They are all going away, I think. I wish they
would stay at home."

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just
applied for permission to go to town with Maria ; and as Sir
Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the permission
should be granted. Lady Bertram, though in her own good
nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting the

change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which would
otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal
of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to
reconcile his wife to the arrangements. Everything that a
considerate parent ought to feel was advanced for her use;
and everytliing that an affectionate mother must feel in
promoting her children's enjoyment w^as attributed to her
nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm " Yes; ''^
and at the end of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration
spontaneously observed, " Sir Thomas, I have been thinking
— and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the
others are away we feel the good of it."

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by
adding, " Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we
think her by praising her to her face; she is now a very
valuable companion. If we have been kind to her, she is
now quite as necessary to w^."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, presently; "and it is a
comfort to think that we shall always have A^r."

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and
then gravely replied, " She will never leave us, I hope, till
invited to some other home that may reasonably promise her
greater happiness than she knows here."

" And that is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who
should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her at
Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking
her to live there; and I am sure she is better off here; and
besides, I cannot do without her."

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the
great house in Mansfield had a very different character at
the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family^
it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity
and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary.
Something arose from difference of disposition and habit:
one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure ; but still
more might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In
some points of interest they were exactly opposed to each
other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence was really in
its cause and its tendency a relief. To Mary it was every
way painful. She felt the want of his society every day,
almost ever}^ hour, and was too much in want of it to derive

238 {MAO^SFIELD PA%K.

anything but irritation from considering the object for which
he went. He could not have devised anything more Hkely
to raise his consequence than this week's absence^ occurring
as it did at the very time of her brother's going away, of
William Price's going too, and completing the sort of general
break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt
it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within
doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no
variety to hope for. Angry as she was with Edmund for
adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance
of her (and she had been so angry that they had hardly
parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him
continually when absent, dwelling on his merits and affection,
and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately
had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not
have planned such an absence ; he should not have left home
for a week, when her own departure from Mansfield was so
near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she
had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She
was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous
expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have
been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such
words unsaid with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was
bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came round
again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and
still no Edmund; and when, through the slight communica-
tion with the other family which Sunday produced, she
learned that he had actually written home to defer his
return, having promised to remain some days longer with
his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before — if she had
been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong effect
on him — she now felt and feared it all tenfold more. She
had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion
entirely new to her — jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had
sisters; he might find them attractive. But at any rate his
staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans,
she was to remove to London, meant something that she
could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing,
at the end ot three or four days, she should now have been

MAH^FIELD PA%K 239

leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary for her
to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could
not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she
made her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking
which she had deemed unconquerable a week before, for the
chance of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least
hearing his name.

The first half hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram
were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could
hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room,
and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began,
with a voice as well regulated as she could: — " And how do
you like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long 1 Being
the only young person at home, I consider you as the greatest
sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer
surprise you? "

I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. Yes; I had
not particularly expected it."

" Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of.
It is the general way all young men do."

He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen
before."

He finds the house more agreeable now. He is a very —
a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being
rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to
London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. I am looking
for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be
nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have
seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my
compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments.
Is not there a something wanted. Miss Price, is our language —
a something between compliments and — and love — to
suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together ?
So many months' acquaintance ! But compliments may be
sufiicient here. Was his letter a long one ? Does he give you
much account of what he is doing ? Is it Christmas gaieties
that he is staying for? "

I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle;
but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but
a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed-
him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A

240 mADiSFIELD PA%K

few days longer^ or some days longer; I am not quite sure
which/'

Oh! if he v/rote to his father; but I thought it might
have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his
father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to
Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have
been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and
parties. He would have sent you a description of everything
and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there

Three grown up.^'

Are they musical.? "

I do not at all know. I never heard.'*

That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford,
trying to appear gay and unconcerned, which every woman
who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is
very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies — about
any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being
told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and
pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every
family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte,
and one on the harp ; and all sing, or would sing if they were
taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or some-
thing like it.''

I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.

" You know nothing and you care less, as people say.
Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how
can one care for those one has never seen ? Well, when your
cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the
noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do
not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws
near. She does not like my going."

Fanny felt obliged to speak. You cannot doubt your being
missed by many," said she. You will be very much missed."

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear
or see more, and then laughingly said, " Oh yes! missed as
every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is,
there is a great difference felt. But I am not fishing: don't
compliment me. If I a?n missed, it will appear. I may be
discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in
any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region."

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss

Crawford was disappointed ; for she had hoped to hear some
pleasant assurance of her power, from one who she thought
must know, and her spirits were clouded again.

The Miss Owens/' said she, soon afterwards; suppose
you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton
Lacey; how should you like it? Stranger things have hap-
pened. I dare say they are trying for it. And they are
quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment
for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is
everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can.
Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in
their own line. Their father is a clergyman, and their
brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property ; he fairly belongs to them. You
don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But
honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise ? "

" No," said Fanny stoutly, I do not expect it at all."
Not at all I" cried Miss Crawford, with alacrity. ''I
wonder at that. But I dare say you know exactly — I always
imagine you are — perhaps you do not think him likely ta
marry at all — or not at present."

" No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err
either in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering
greater spirit from the blush soon produced from such a
look, only said, He is best off as he is," and turned the
subject.

CH^PTE% XXX

Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened 'f by this
conversation, and she walked home again in spirits which
might have defied almost another week of the same small
party in the same bad weather, had they been put to the
proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down
from London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual
cheerfulness, she had nothing further to try her own. His
still refusing to tell her what he had gone for was but the
promotion of gaiety; a day before it might have irritated^

242 mAO^FIELD ?A%K

but now it was a pleasant joke ; suspected only of concealing
something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And
the next day did bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he
should just go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be
back in ten minutes, but he was gone above an hour; and
when his sister, who had been waiting for him to walk with
her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in the
sweep, and cried out, My dear Henry, where can you have
been all this time? " he had only to say that he had been
sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny.

" Sitting with them an hour and a half! " exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

Yes, Mary,'' said he, drawing her arm within his, and
walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he was : ''I
could not get away sooner; Fanny looked so lovely! I am
quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely made up.
Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am
quite determined to marry Fanny Price."

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever
his consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having
any such views had never entered his sister's imagination;
and she looked so truly the astonishment she felt, that he
was obliged to repeat what he had said and more fully and
more solemnly. The conviction of his determination once
admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure
with the surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in
a connection with the Bertram family, and to be not dis-
pleased with her brother's marrying a little beneath him.

Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance. I am
fairly caught. You knov/ with what idle designs I began;
but this is the end of them. I have (I flatter myself) made
no inconsiderable progress in her affections ; but my own are
entirely fixed."

Lucky, lucky girl! " cried Mary, as soon as she could
•speak; ''what a match for her! My dearest Henr>^, this
must be my iiYst feeling; but my second, which you shall
have as sincerely, is, that I approve your choice from my
soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish and
desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude
and devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an
amazing match for her! Mrs. Norris often talks of her luck;

mAV^SFIELD PA%IL 243

what will she say now ? The delight of all the family^ indeed !
And she has some true friends in it ! How they will rejoice !
But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When did
you begin to think seriously about her? "

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a
question^ though nothing could be more agreeable than to
have it asked. How the pleasing plague had stolen on
him " he could not say; and before he had expressed the
same sentiment with a little variation of words three times
over^ his sister eagerly interrupted him with Ah, my dear
Henry^ and this is what took you to London ! This was your
business! You chose to consult the Admiral before you
made up your mind."

But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to
consult him on any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral
hated marriage, and thought it never pardonable in a young
man of independent fortune.

When Fanny is known to him/' continued Henry, he
will doat on her. She is exactly the woman to do away
every prejudice of such a man as the Admiral, for she is
exactly such a woman as he thinks does not exist in the
world. She is the very impossibility he would describe, if
indeed he has now delicacy of language enough to embody
his own ideas. But till it is absolutely settled — settled
beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the matter.
No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered
my business yet."

Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must
relate, and am in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price!
wonderful, quite wonderful! That Mansfield should have
done so much for — that you should have found your fate in
Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and
you do not want for fortune ; and as to her connections, they
are more than good. The Bertrams are undoubtedly some
of the first people in this country. She is niece to Sir Thomas
Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But go on, go
on. Tell me more. What are your plans ? Does she know
her own happiness? "

" No."

" What are vou waiting for? "

244 3iA3^FIELD PA%K

For — for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she
is not like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."

" Oh no ! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing — sup-
posing her not to love you already (of which, however, I can
have little doubt) — you would be safe. The gentleness and
gratitude of her disposition would secure her all your own
immediately. From my soul I do not think she would marry
you without love ; that is, if there is a girl in the world capable of
being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her ; but ask
her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse."

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as
happy to tell as she could be to listen; and a conversation
followed almost as deeply interesting to her as to himself,
though he had in fact nothing to relate but his own sensations,
nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms. Fanny's beauty
of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness of
heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty,
and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on;
that sweetness which makes so essential a part of every
woman's worth in the judgment of man, that though he
sometimes loves where it is not, he can never believe it
absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the
family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or
other continually exercised her patience and forbearance?
Her affections were evidently strong. To see her with her
brother! What could more delightfully prove that the
warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What
could be more encouraging to a man who had her love in
view? Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion,
quick and clear: and her manners were the mirror of her
own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry
Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good
principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to
serious reflection to know them by [their] proper name ; but
when he talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity
of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and such an ob-
servance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest
dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was
inspired by the knowledge of her being well principled and
religious.

Mi

^lA^iSFIELD PA%K 245

" I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her/' said
he, " and that is what I want."

Well might his sistef, believing as she really did that his
opinion of Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits,
rejoice in her prospects.

The more I think of it/' she cried^ " the more am I con-
vinced that you are doing quite right; and though I should
never have selected Fanny Price as the girl most likely to
attach you^ I am now persuaded she is the very one to make
you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns out
a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good
in it.''

It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but
I did not know her then; and she shall have no reason to
lament the hour that first put it into my head. I will make
her very happy, Mary; happier than she has ever yet been
herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her from
Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place
in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let
a seven years' lease of Everingham. I am sure of an excel-
lent tenant at half a word. I could name three people now,
who would give me my own terms and thank me."

" Ha! " cried Mary; " settle in Northamptonshire! That
is pleasant I Then we shall be all together."

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished
it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion; for her
brother saw her only as the supposed inmate of Mansfield
Parsonage, and replied but to invite her in the kindest
manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.

You must give us more than half your time," said he.
" I cannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with
Fanny and myself, for we shall both have a right in you.
Fanny will be so truly your sister! "

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances;
but she was now very fully purposed to be the guest of
neither brother nor sister many months longer.

" You will divide your year between London and
Northamptonshire? "

" Yes."

" That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your
own; no longer with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the

246 mAOiSFIELD PA%K.

advantage to you of getting away from the Admiral before
your manners are hurt by the contagion of his^ before you
have contracted any of his fooHsh opinions^ or learned to sit
over your dinner^ as if it were the best blessing of life ! You
are not sensible of the gain^ for your regard for him has
blinded you; but^ in my estimation^ your marrying early
may be the saving of you. To have seen you grow like the
Admiral in word or deed^ look or gesture^ would have broken
my heart."

" Well^ well^ we do not think quite alike here. The Ad-
miral has his faults^ but he is a very good man, and has been
more than a father to me. Few fathers would have let me
have my own way half so much. You must not prejudice
Fanny against him. I must have them love one another."

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could
not be two persons in existence whose characters and manners
were less accordant: time would discover it to him; but she
could not help this reflection on the Admiral. " Henry, I
think so highly of Fanny Price that if I could suppose the
next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which my
poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would pre-
vent the marriage, if possible ; but I know you : I know that
a wife you loved would be the happiest of women, and that
even when you ceased to love, she would yet find in you the
liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman."

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to
make Fanny Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price,
was of course the groundwork of his eloquent answer.

" Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued,
" attending with such ineffable sweetness and patience to all
the demands of her aunt's stupidity, working with her, and
for her, her colour beautifully heightened as she leant over
the work, then returning to her seat to finish a note which
she was previously engaged in writing for that stupid woman's
service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness, so
much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have
a moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly
as it always is, and one little curl falling forward as she wrote,
which she now and then shook back, and in the midst of all
this, still speaking at intervals to me, or listening, and as if
she liked to listen, to what I said. Had you seen her so,

3\dA3^FIELD PJ'T^K 247

Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her
power over my heart ever ceasing."

My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and
smiling in his face, " how glad I am to see you so much in
love! It quite delights me. But what will Mrs. Rushworth
and Julia say? "

" I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They
will now see what sort of woman it is that can attach me,
that can attach a man of sense. I wish the discovery may
do them any good. And they will now see their cousin
treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.
They will be angry,'' he added, after a moment's silence, and
in a cooler tone; Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry. It
will be a bitter pill to her; that is, like other bitter pills, it
will have two moments' ill flavour, and then be swallowed
and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose
her feelings more lasting than other women's, though / was
the object of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a differ-
ence, indeed; a daily, hourly difference, in the behaviour of
every being who approaches her; and it will be the comple-
tion of my happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that
I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.
Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, for-
gotten."

Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all ; not friend-
less or forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."

Edmund! True, I believe he is (generally speaking),
kind to her, and so is Sir Thomas in his way ; but it is the
way of a rich, superior, longworded, arbitrary uncle. What
can Sir Thomas and Edmund together do, what do they do
for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in the world,
to what I shall do "

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next
morning, and at an earlier hour than common visiting
warrants. The two ladies were together in the breakfast-

248 aiADiSFIELD PA%K

room^ and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the
very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at
the door, and not chusing by any means to take so much
trouble in vain, she still went on, after a civil reception, a
short sentence about being waited for, and a Let Sir Thomas
know," to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her
off, and without losing another moment, turned instantly to
Fanny, and, taking out some letters, said, with a most
animated look, I must acknowledge myself infinitely
obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of
seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can
have any idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a
sister are, I could hardly have borne that any one in the house
should share with you in the first knowledge of the news I
now bring. He is made. Your brother is a lieutenant. I
have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on your
brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce
it, this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to
^ee them."

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak.
To see the expression of her eyes, the change of her com-
plexion, the progress of her feelings, their doubt, confusion,
and felicity was enough. She took the letters as he gave
them. The first was from the Admiral to inform his nephew,
in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had
undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing
two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a
friend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the business;
the other from that friend to himself, by which it appeared
that his lordship had the very great happiness of attending
±0 the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was
much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his
regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of
Mr. William Price's commission as Second Lieutenant of
H.M. Sloop Thrush," being made out, was spreading
general joy through a wide circle of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye
Tunning from one to the other, and her heart swelling with
emotion, Crawford thus continued, with unfeigned eagerness,
to express his interest in the event: —

mA^KSFIELD PA%^ 249

" I will not talk of my own happiness/' said he, " great as
it is, for I think only of yours. Compared with you, who has
a right to be happy ? I have almost grudged myself my own
prior knowledge of what you ought to have known before
all the world. I have not lost a moment, however. The
post was late this morning, but there has not been since a
moment's delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild
I have been on the subject, I will not attempt to describe;
how severely mortified, how cruelly disappointed, in not
having it finished while I was in London ! I was kept there
from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to me
than such an object would have detained me half the time
from Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my
wishes with all the warmth I could desire, and exerted
himself immediately, there were difficulties from the absence
of one friend, and the engagements of another, which at
last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and knowing
in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be
followed by such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the
very best man in the world, has exerted himself, as I knew
he would, after seeing your brother. He was delighted with
him. I would not allow myself yesterday to say how
delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the
praise of a friend, as this day does prove it. 'Now I may say
that even / could not require William Price to excite a
greater interest, or be followed by warmer wishes and higher
commendation, than were most voluntarily bestowed by
my uncle after the evening they had passed together.*'

"Has this been all your doing, then.^ '' cried Fanny.
" Good heaven ! how ver^r^ very kind ! Have you really —
was it by your desire.^ I beg your pardon, but I am be-
wildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply.? How was it.?
I am stupefied.''

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by
beginning at an earlier stage, and explaining very particularly
what he had done. His last journey to London had been
undertaken with no other view than that of introducing her
brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral to exert
whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This

250 OdAD^^FIELD PA%K

bad been bis business. He bad communicated it to no
creature; be bad not breatbed a syllable of it even to Mary;
while uncertain of tbe issue^ be could not bave borne any
participation of bis feelings^ but this bad been bib business;
and be spoke witb sucb a glow of wbat bis solicitude bad been,
and used sucb strong expressions, was so abounding in tbe
deepest interest, in twofold motives , in views and wishes more
than could he told, that Fanny could not bave remained
insensible of bis drift, bad she been able to attend ; but her
heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she
could listen but imperfectly even to wbat be told her of
William, and saying only when he paused, How kind ! bow
very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to
you! Dearest, dearest William!" She jumped up and
moved in baste towards the door, crying out, " I will go to
my uncle. My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible.''
But this could not be suffered. The opportunity was too
fair, and bis feelings too impatient. He was after her
immediately. " She must not go, she must allow him five
minutes longer," and be took her hand and led her back to
her seat, and was in the middle of his further explanation,
before she had suspected for what she was detained. When
she did understand it, bov/ever, and found herself expected
to believe that she bad created sensations which his heart had
never known before, and that everything he bad done for
William was to be placed to the account of his excessive and
unequalled ■.ttachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed,
and for some moments unable to speak. She considered it
all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry, which meant
only to deceive for the hour; she could not but feel that it
was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a
wa}'- as she bad not deserved; but it was like himself, and
entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she
would not allow herself to show half the displeasure she felt,
because be had been conferring an obligation, which no want
of delicacy on his part could make a trifle to her. While her
heart was still bounding witb joy and gratitude on Wiliam's
behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that
injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her
hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him,
she got up, and said only, with much agitation, " Don't, Mr.

mAHSFIELD PA%K 251

Crawford;, pray don't! I beg you would not. This is a sort
of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I must go away.
I cannot bear it." But he was still talking on^ describing his
affection^ soliciting a return^, and^, finally^ in words so plain
as to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself,
hand^ fortune, everything to her acceptance. It was so;
he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased;
and though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she
could hardly stand. He pressed for an answer.

" No, no, no! " she cried, hiding her face. This is all
nonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no more of
this. Your kindness to William makes me more obliged
to you than words can express ; but I do not want, I
cannot bear, I must not listen to such — ^No, no, don't think
of me. But you are not thinking of me. I know it is all
nothing."

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir
Thomas was heard speaking to a servant in his way towards
the room they were in. It was no time for further assurances
or entreaty, though to part with her at a moment when her
modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and pre-assured mind,
to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one
her uncle was approaching, and was walking up and down
the East room in the utmost confusion of contrary feeling,
before Sir Thomas's politeness or apologies were over, or he
had reached the beginning of the joyful intelligence which
his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling, about everything;
agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely
angry. It was all beyond belief! He was inexcusable, in-
comprehensible! But such were his habits, that he could
do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had
insulted — she knew not vv^hat to say — how to class, or how
to regard it. She would not have him be serious, and yet
what could excuse the use of such words and offers, if they
meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. That was a fact beyond
a doubt, and without an alloy. She would think of it for ever
and forget all the rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never

252 3iA3iSFIELD PA%K

address her so again; he must have seen how unwelcome it
was to her; and in that case^ how gratefully she could esteem
him for his friendship to William !

She would not stir farther from the East room than the
head of the great staircase^ till she had satisfied herself of
Mr. Crawford's having left the house; but when convinced
of his being gone^ she was eager to go down and be with her
uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy as well as her
own, and all the benefit of his information or his conjectures
as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas
was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communi-
cative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about
William as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to
vex her, till she found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford
was engaged to return and dine there that very day. This
was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think
nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to
her to see him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the
dinner hour approached, to feel and appear as usual ; but it
was quite impossible for her not to look most shy and uncom-
fortable when their visitor entered the room. She could not
have supposed it in the power of any concurrence of circum-
stances to give her so many painful sensations on the first
day of hearing of William's promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room — he was soon close
to her. He had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny
could not look at him, but there was no consciousness of past
folly in his voice. She opened her note immediately, glad
to have anything to do, and happy, as she read it, to feel
that the fidgettings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine
there, screened her a little from view.

" My dear Fanny — for so I may now always call you, to
the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at Miss
Price for at least the last six weeks: I cannot let my brother
go without sending you a few lines of general congratulation,
and giving my most joyful consent and approval. Go on,
my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no difficulties
worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my
consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with

mA2<^FlELD PA%K 253

your sweetest smiles this afternoon^ and send him back to
me even happier than he goes. — Yours affectionately^

" M. C."

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for
though she read in too much haste and confusion to form the
clearest judgment of Miss Crawford's meaning, it was evident
that she meant to compliment her on her brother's attach-
ment, and even to appear to believe it serious. She did not
know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness
in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and
agitation every way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Craw-
ford spoke to her, and he spoke to her much too often ; and
she was afraid there was a something in his voice and manner
in addressing her very different from what they were when
he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner
was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and
when Sir Thomas good-hum ouredly observed, that joy had
taken away her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame,
from the dread of Mr. Crawford's interpretation; for though
nothing could have tempted her to turn her eyes to the right
hand, where he sat, she felt that his were immediately
directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join
even when William was the subject, for his commission came
all from the right hand too, and there was pain in the
connection.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began
to be in despair of ever getting away; but at last they were
in the drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would,
while her aunts finished the subject of William's appointment
in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it
would be to Sir Thomas as with any part of it. ISlow
William would be able to keep himself, which would make a
vast difference to his uncle, for it was unknown how much
he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make som.e
difference in her presents too. She was very glad that she
had given William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed,
that it had been in her power, without material inconveni-
ence, just at that time to give him something rather consi-

254 mA^KSFIELD PA%K

derable; that is, for her, with her limited means, for now it
would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin. She knew
he must be at some expense, that he would have many things
to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able
to put him in the way of getting everything very cheap ; but
she was very glad she had contributed her mite tow^ards it.''

I am glad you gave him something considerable,'' said
Lady Bertram, with [most] unsuspicious calmness, for /
gave him only £io."

" Indeed ! " cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. Upon my
word, he must have gone off with his pockets well lined, and
at no expense for his journey to London either! "

Sir Thomas told me £io would be enough."
Mrs. Norris being not at all inclined to question its suffi-
ciency began to take the matter in another point.

It is amazing," said she, how much young people cost
their friends, what with bringing them up and putting them
out in the world ! They little think how much it comes to, or
what their parents, or their uncles and aunts pay for them
in the course of the year. Now, here are my sister Price's
children; take them all together, I dare say nobody would
believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say
nothing of what / do for them."

" Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things ! they
cannot help it; and you know it makes very little difference
to Sir Thomas. Fanny, William must not forget my shawl,
if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall give him a com-
mission for anything else that is worth having. I wish he
may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I
think I will have two shawls, Fanny."

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help
it, was very earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and
Miss Crawford were at. There was everything in the world
against their being serious, but his words and manner.
Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it ; all
their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits.
How could she have excited serious attachment in a man w^ho
had seen so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted
with so many, infinitely her superiors; who seemed so httle
open to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken
to please him; who thought so slightly, so carelessly, so un-

mAS^FIELD PA%K 255

feelingly on all such points ; who was everything to every-
body, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And
further, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her
high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding
anything of a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing
could be more unnatural in either. Fanny was ashamed of
her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than
serious attachment, or serious approbation of it towards her.
She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas
and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in main-
taining the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford
was in the room ; for once or twice a look seemed forced on
* her which she did not know how to class among the common
•meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said
I that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But
she still tried to believe it no more than what he might often
have expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the
rest. She fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at
intervals, whenever Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at.
all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and she carefully refused him
every opportunity.

At last — it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though,
not remarkably late — he began to talk of going away; but
the comfort of the sound was impaired by his turning to her
the next moment, and saying, " Have you nothing to send
to Mary ? No answer to her note ? She will be disappointed
if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it be
only a line."

Oh yes ! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the
haste of embarrassment and of wanting to get away — I
will write directly."

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the
habit of writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials
without knowing what in the world to say. She had read
: Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to reply to anything
[ so imperfectly understood was most distressing. Quite un-
I practised in such sort of notewriting, had there been time for
! scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in
; abundance : but something must be instantly written ; and
•with only one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear-

256 ^JOiSFIELD PA%K

to think anything really intended, she wrote thus, in great
trembling both of spirits and hand : —

" I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford,
for your kind congratulations, as far as they relate to my
dearest William. The rest of your note I know means
nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of the sort, that
I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no further
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to under-
stand his manners ; if he understood me as well, he would, I
dare say, behave differently. I do not know what I write,
but it would be a great favour of you never to mention the
subject again. With thanks for the honour of your note, I
remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc.'*

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing ^
fright, for she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of
receiving the note, was coming towards her.

" You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an '
under voice, perceiving the amazing trepidation with which
she made up the note; " you cannot think I have any such
object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat.''

''Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will
be ready in a moment; I am very much obliged to you; if
you will be so good as to give that to Miss Crawford."

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she
instantly and with averted eyes walked towards the fire-place,
where sat the others, he had nothing to do but to go in good
earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater
agitation, both of pain and pleasure ; but happily, the pleasure
was not of a sort to die with the day ; for every day v/ould
restore the knowledge of William's advancement, whereas
the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had no
doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that
the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had
allowed no arrangement; but at least it would assure them
both of her being neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr.
-Crawford's attentions.

mA3<^FIELD PA'KK 257

CHJPTE'FiXXXII

Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she
awoke the next morning; but she remembered the purport
of her note, and was not less sanguine as to its effect than she
had been the night before. If Mr. Crawford would but go
away! That was what she most earnestly desired; go and
take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned
to Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done
already she could not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly
wanted no delay. Fanny had hoped, in the course of his
yesterday's visit, to hear the day named; but he had only
noken of their journey as what would take place ere long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note
J vould convey, she could not but be astonished to see Mr.
Crawford, as she accidentally did, coming up to the house
again, and at an hour as early as the day before. His coming
might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing
him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs, she
resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless
actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house,
there seemed little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening,
trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment; but
as no footsteps approached the East room, she grew gradually
composed, could sit down, and be able to employ herself,
and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go
without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was grov/ing very
comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step in regular
approach was heard; a heavy step, an unusual step in that
; part of the house; it was her uncle's; she knew it as well as
his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began to
I tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her,
: whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas,
who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he
might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to
that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going
jj to examine her again in French and English.

258 3IA3^FIELD PA%K

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him,
and trying to appear honoured; and in her agitation, had
quite overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he,
stopping short as he entered, said, with much surprise, " Why
have you no fire to-day? "

There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a
shawl. She hesitated.

" I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of
year.^'

" But vou have a fire in general ? "
" No, sir."

"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake.
I understood that you had the use of this room by way of ,
making you perfectly comfortable. In your bedchamber I
know you cannot have a fire. Here is some great misappre-
hension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you
to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are
not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of
this."

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged
to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she
loved best, from saying something in which the words " my
aunt Norris " were distinguishable.

" I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and
not wanting to hear more: " I understand. Your aunt
Norris has always been an advocate, and very judiciously,
for young people's being brought up without unnecessary )
indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything.
She is also very hardy herself, which of course will influence
her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another
account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her
sentiments have always been. The principle was good in
itself, but it may have been, and I believe has been, carried
too far in your case. I am aware that there has been some-
times, in some points, a misplaced distinction; but I think
too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour
resentment on that account. You have an understanding!
which will prevent you from receiving things only in part,!
and judging partially by the event. You will take in thej
whole of the past, you will consider times, persons, andJ .
probabilities, and you will feel that they were not least your :

OdAS^FIELD PATiK 259

friends who were educating and preparing you for that
mediocrity of condition which seemed to be your lot. Though
their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was
kindly meant; and of this you may be assured, that every
advantage of affluence will be doubled by the little privations
and restrictions that may have been imposed. I am sure
you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing at any
time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention
that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my
dear. I must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not
detain you long."

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising.
After a moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a
smile, went on.

" You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this
morning. I had not been long in my own room, after break-
fast, when Mr. Crawford was shewn in. His errand you may
probably conjecture."

Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle,
perceiving that she was embarrassed to a degree that made
either speaking or looking up quite impossible, turned away
his own eyes, and without any farther pause proceeded in his
account of Mr. Crawford's visit.

Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the
lover of Fanny, make decided proposals for her, and entreat
the sanction of the uncle, who seemed to stand in the place of
her parents; and he had done it all so well, so openly, so
liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling, moreover, his
own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much to
the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars
of their conversation, and, little aware of what was passing in
his niece's mind, conceived, that by such details he must be
gratifying her far more than himself. He talked, therefore,
for several minutes without Fanny's daring to interrupt him.
She had hardly even attained the wish to do it. Her mind
was in too much confusion. She had changed her position;
and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was
listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay.
For a moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious
of it, when, rising from his chair, he said, and now, Fanny,
having performed one part of my commission, and shewn

26o 3iA3^FIELD PA%K

you everything placed on a basis the most assured and satis-
factory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you
to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but
presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself,
I must submit to your finding one still better worth listening
to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the
house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you there.''

There was a look, a start, an exclamation, on hearing this,
which astonished Sir Thomas ; but what was his increase of
astonishment on hearing her exclaim — " Oh I no, sir, I cannot,
indeed I cannot go down to him. Mr. Crawford ought to
know — he must know that; I told him enough yesterday to
convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday, and
I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to
me, and quite out of my power to return his good opinion.''

" I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting
down again. " Out of your power to return his good opinion ?
What is all this ? I know he spoke to you yesterday, and (as
far as I understand) received as much encouragement to
proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit herself
to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to
have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a
discretion highly to be commended. But now, when he has
made his overtures so properly, and honourably — what are
your scruples now ? "

" You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by the
anxiety of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was
wrong; " you are quite mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford
say such a thing } I gave him no encouragement yesterday.
On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect my exact
words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,
that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that
I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again. I
am sure I said as much as that and more ; and I should have
said still more, if I had been quite certain of his meaning
anything seriously ; but I did not like to be, I could not bear
to be, imputing more than might be intended. I though it
might all pass for nothing with Am."

She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.

" Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few
moments' silence, " that you mean to refuse Mr. Crawford? "

31 A3iS FIELD PA%k 261

Yes, sir."
" Refuse him?"
Yes, sir."

''Refuse Mr. Crawford I Upon what plea? For what
reason? "

" I — I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him."

"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of
calm displeasure. " There is something in this which my
comprehension does not reach. Here is a young man wishing
to pay his addresses to you, with everything to recommend
him ; not merely situation in life, fortune, and character, but
with more than common agreeableness, with address and
conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an
acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some
time. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he
has been doing that for your brother, which I should suppose
would have been almost sufficient recommendation to you,
had there been no other. It is very uncertain when my
interest might have got William on. He has done it already."

" Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down
with fresh shame ; and she did feel almost ashamed of herself,
after such a picture as her uncle had drawn, for not liking
Mr. Crawford.

" You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas
presently, " you must have been some time aware of a par-
ticularity in Mr. Crawford's manners to you. This cannot
have taken you by surprise. You must have observed his
attentions; and though you always received them very
properly (I have no accusation to make on that head), I
never perceived them to be unpleasant to you. I am half
inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not quite know your
own feelings."

" Oh yes, sir ! indeed I do. His attentions were always —
what I did not like."

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. " This is
beyond me," said he. " This requires explanation. Young
as you are, and having seen scarcely any one, it is hardly
possible that your affections "

He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed
into a m, though the sound was inarticulate, but her face
was like scarlet. That, however, in so modest a girl might

262 mAS^FIELD PJI^

be very compatible with innocence; and chusing at least to
appear satisfied, he quickly added, " No, no, I know that is
quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there is
nothing more to be said."

And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep
in thought. His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying
to harden and prepare herself against farther questioning.
She would rather die than own the truth ; and she hoped by
a little reflection to fortify herself beyond betraying it.

Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's
choice seemed to justify," said Sir Thomas, beginning again,
and very composedly, " his wishing to marry at all so early
is recommendatory to me. I am an advocate for early
marriages, where there are means in proportion, and would
have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as
soon after four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my
opinion, that I am sorry to think how little likely my own
eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Bertram, is to marry early; but
at present, as far as I can judge, matrimony makes no part
of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more likely to fix."
Here was a glance at Fanny. " Edmund, I consider, from
his dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry
early than his brother. He, indeed, I have lately thought
has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced,
my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with
me, my dear? "

Yes, sir."

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was
easy on the score of the cousins. But the removal of his
alarm did his niece no service ; as her unaccountableness was
confirmed his displeasure increased; and getting up and
walking about the room, with a frown, which Fanny could
picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes, he
shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, " Have
you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's temper? "
No, sir."

She longed to add, " but of his principles I have; " but her
heart sunk under the appalling prospect of discussion, ex-
planation, and probably non-conviction. Her ill opinion of
him was founded chiefly on observations, which, for her
cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare mention to their father.

mAO^FIELD PA%K 263

Maria and Julia, and especially ?tlaria, were so closely im-
plicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that she could not
give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying
them. She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so dis-
cerning, so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment
of settled dislike on her side, would have been sufficient. To
her infinite grief she found it was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in
trembling wretchedness, and with a good deal of cold stern-
ness, said, " It is of no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We
had better put an end to this most mortifying conference.
Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer waiting. I will,
therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my
opinion of your conduct, that you have disappointed every
expectation I had formed, and proved yourself of a character
the very reverse of what I had supposed. For I had, Fanny,
as I think my behaviour must have shewn, formed a very
favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to
England. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness
of temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that indepen-
dence of spirit which prevails so much in modem days, even
in young women, and which in young women is offensive and
disgusting beyond all common offence. But you have now
shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse ; that you can
and will decide for yourself, without any consideration or
deference for those who have surely some right to guide you,
without even asking their advice. You have shewn yourself
very, very different from anything that I had imagined. The
advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your parents,
your brothers and sisters, never seems to have had a moment's
share in your thoughts on this occasion. How they might be
benefited, how they must rejoice in such an establishment for
you, is nothing to you. You think only of yourself, and be-
cause you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young
heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness, you
resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little
time to consider of it, a little more time for cool consideration,
and for really examining your own inclinations; and are, in a
wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity
of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as
will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a young

264 3\4AV<^FIELD PAT{K

man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of
fortune, exceedingly attached to< you, and seeking your hand
in the most handsome and disinterested way; and let me
tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer in
the world, without being addressed by a man of half Mr.
Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of his merits. Gladly
would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him.
Maria is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia's
hand, I should have given it to him with superior and more
heartfelt satisfaction than I gave Maria's to Mr. Rushworth."
After half a moment's pause: " And I should have been very
much surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a
proposal of marriage at any time which might carry with it
only half the eligibility of this, immediately and peremptorily,
and without paying my opinion or my regard the compliment
of any consultation, put a decided negative on it. I should
have been much surprised and much hurt, by such a pro-
ceeding. I should have thought it a gross violation of duty
and respect. You are not to be judged by the same rule.
You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your
heart can acquit you of ingratitude "

He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly,
that, angry as he was, he would not press that article farther.
Her heart was almost broke by such a picture of what she
appeared to him; by such accusations, so heavy, so multi-
plied, so rising in dreadful gradation ! Self-willed, obstinate,
selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. She had
deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion.
What was to become of her?

" I am very sorry," said she, inarticulately, through her
tears, " I am very sorry, indeed."

" Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably
have reason to be long sorry for this day's transactions."

If it were possible for me to do otherwise " said she,

with another strong effort; " but I am so perfectly convinced
that I could never make him happy, and that I should be
miserable myself."

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in
spite of that great black word miserable, which served to
introduce it. Sir Thomas began to think a little relenting, a
little change of inclination, might have something to do with

mASiSFIELD PA%K 265

it; and to augur favourably from the personal entreaty of
the young man himself. He knew her to be very timid, and
exceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her
mind might be in such a state as a little time, a little pressing,
a little patience, and a little impatience, a judicious mixture
of all on the lover's side, might work their usual effect on.
If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love
enough to persevere. Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and
these reflections having passed across his mind and cheered
it, " Well," said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less
anger, well, child, dry up your tears. There is no use in
these tears; they can do no good. You must now come
downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting
too long already. You must give him your own answer; we
cannot expect him to be satisfied with less ; and you only can
explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your
sentiments, which, unfortunately for himself, he certainly
has imbibed. I am totally unequal to it."

But Fanny showed such reluctance, such miser}'", at the
idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little
consideration, judged it better to indulge her. His hopes
from both gentleman and lady suffered a small depression in
consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the
state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought
her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained
by an immediate interview. With a few words, therefore, of
no particular meaning, he walked off by himself, leaving his
poor niece to sit and cry over what had passed, with very
wretched feelings.

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future,
everything was terrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the
severest pain of all. Selfish and ungrateful ! to have appeared
so to him ! She was miserable for ever. She had no one to
take her part, to counsel, or speak for her. Her only friend
was absent. He might have softened his father; but all,
perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She
might have to endure the reproach again and again; she
might hear it, or see it, or know it to exist for ever in every
connection about her. She could not but feel some resent-
ment against Mr. Crawford ; yet, if he really loved her, and
were unhappy too ! It was all wretchedness together.

266 mAO^FIELD PA^K

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned ; she was
almost ready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly,
however, without austerity, without reproach, and she
revived a little. There was comfort, too, in his words, as
well as his manner, for he began with, Mr. Crawford is gone:
he has just left me. I need not repeat what has passed. I
do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by
an account of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has
behaved in the most gentlemanlike and generous manner,
and has confirmed me in a most favourable opinion of his
understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my representation
of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the
greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present.^'

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again.
Of course," continued her uncle, " it cannot be supposed
but that he should request to speak with you alone, be it only
for five minutes; a request too natural, a claim too just to be
denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps to-morrow, or
whenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present
you have only to tranquiUise yourself. Check these tears;
they do but exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you
wish to show me any observance, you will not give way to
these emotions, but endeavour to reason yourself into a
stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out ; the air will
do you good ; go out for an hour on the gravel ; you will have
the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better for air and
exercise. And, Fanny (turning back again for a moment),
I shall make no mention below of what has passed ; I shall not
even tell your aunt Bertram. There is no occasion for
spreading the disappointment; say nothing about it your-
self."^

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was
an act of kindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be
spared from her aunt Norris's interminable reproaches! he
left her in a glow of gratitude. Anything might be bearable
rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr. Crawford
would be less overpowering. ^

She walked out directly as her uncle recommended, and {
followed his advice throughout, as far as she could; did
check her tears ; did earnestly try to compose her spirits and
strengthen her mind. She wished to prove to him that she

mAViSFIELD PA%K 267

did desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favour; and
he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in keep-
ing the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to
excite suspicion by her look or manner, was now an object
worth attaining ; and she felt equal to almost anything that
might save her from her aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her
walk and going into the East room again, the first thing which
caught her eye was a fire lighted and burning. A fire ! it
seemed too much; just at that time to be giving her such
an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude. She
wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such
a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary
information of the housemaid, who came in to attend it, that
so it was to be every day. Sir Thomas had given orders
for it.

" I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful 1 "
said she, m soliloquy. " Heaven defend me from being
ungrateful !

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris,
till they met at dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was
then as nearly as possible what it had been before; she was
sure he did not mean there should be any change, and that it
was only her own conscience that could fancy any; but her
aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she found how
much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out
without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all
the reason she had to bless the kindness which saved her from
the same spirit of reproach, exerted on a more momentous
subject.

" If I had known you were going out, I should have got you
just to go as far as my house with some orders for Nanny,"
said she, " which I have since, to my very great inconvenience,
been obliged to go and carry myself. I could very ill spare
the time, and you might have saved me the trouble, if you
v/ould only have been so good as to let us know you were
going out. It would have made no difference to you, I
suppose, whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone
to my house."

" I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest
place," said Sir Thomas.

268 a^JOiSFIELD PA1{K

" Oh ! " said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, " that
was very kind of you, Sir Thomas, but you do not know how
dry the path is to my house. Fanny would have had quite as
good a walk there, I assure you, with the advantage of being
of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her fault. If she
would but have let us know she was going out — ; but there is
a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before —
she likes to go her own way to work ; she does not like to be
dictated to; she takes her own independent walk whenever
she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and inde-
pendence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her
to get the better of."

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought
nothing could be more unjust, though he had been so lately
expressing the same sentiments himself, and he tried to turn
the conversation: tried repeatedly before he could succeed;
for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to perceive,
either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought
well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have
his own children's merits set off by the depreciation of hers.
She was talking at Fanny, and resenting this private walk
half through the dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with
more composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits
than she could have hoped for after so stormy a morning;
but she trusted, in the first place, that she had done right;
that her judgment had not misled her. For the purity of her
intentions she could answer; and she was willing to hope,
secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would
abate farther as he considered the matter with more im-
partiality, and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched,
and how unpardonable, how hopeless, and how wicked it
was, to marry without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the
morrow was past, she could not but flatter herself that the
subject would be finally concluded, and Mr. Crawford once
gone from Mansfield, that everything would soon be as if no
such subject had existed. She would not, could not believe,
that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him long;
his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its
cure. In London he would soon learn to wonder at his

mACiSFIELD PATiK 269

k

I' infatuation^ and be thankful for the right reason in her
which had saved him from its evil consequences.

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes,
her uncle was, soon after tea, called out of the room; an
occurrence too common to strike her, and she thought
nothing of it till the butler re-appeared ten minutes after-
wards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, Sir
Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room."
Then it occurred to her what might be going on ; a suspicion
rushed over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks ;
but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs.
Norris called out, Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about?
where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend

' upon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, [it] is
me (looking at the butler); but you are so very eager to put
yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for?
It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this moment.
You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir Thomas wants me,
not Miss Price."

But Baddeley was stout. No, ma'am, it is Miss Price;
I am certain of its being Miss Price." And there was a half
smile with the words, which meant, I do not think you
would answer the purpose at all."

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose
herself to work again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating
consciousness, found herself, as she anticipated, in another
minute alone with Mr. Craw^ford.

CH^PTE1{^XXXIII

The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the
lady had designed. The gentleman was not so easily satis-
fied. He had all the disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas
could wish him. He had vanity, which strongly inclined
him in the first place to think she did love him, though she
might not know it herself ; and which, secondly, when con-
strained at last to admit that she did know her own present
feelings, convinced him that he should be able in time to
make those feelings what he wished.

270 mADiSFIELD PA%K

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love
which, operating on an active, sanguine spirit, of more
warmth than delicacy, made her affection appear of greater
consequence because it was withheld, and determined him to
have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing her to
love him.

He would not despair: he would not desist. He had
every well-grounded reason for solid attachment; he knew
her to have all the worth that could justify the warmest
hopes of lasting happiness with her; her conduct at this
time by speaking the disinterestedness and delicacy of her
character (qualities which he believed most rare indeed), was
of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his resolu-
tions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to
attack. Of that he had no suspicion. He considered her
rather as one who had never thought on the subject enough
to be in danger; who had been guarded by youth, a youth
of mind as lovely as of person ; whose modesty had prevented
her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unex-
pected, and the novelty of a situation which her fancy had
never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood,
he should succeed ? He believed it fully. Love such as his,
in a man like himself, must with perseverance secure a return,
and at no great distance ; and he had so much delight in the
idea of obliging her to love him in a very short time, that her
not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little difficulty
to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather
derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too
easily. His situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition
all her life to find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible.
She found that he did mean to persevere; but how he could,
after such language from her as she felt herself obb'ged to use,
was not to be understood. She told him that she did not
love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love
him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the
subject was most painful to her; that she must intreat him
never to mention it again, to allow her to leave him at once,
and let it be considered as concluded for ever. And when

3^A3iSFIELD PA%K 271

farther pressed^ had added, that in her opinion their disposi-
tions were so totally dissimilar, as to make mutual affection
incompatible; and that they were unfitted for each other by
nature, education, and habit. All this she had said, and
with the earnestness of sincerity; yet this was not enough^
for he inmiediately denied there being anything uncongenial
in their characters, or anything unfriendly in their situations ;
and positively declared, that he would still love, and still hope I

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own
manner. Her manner was incurably gentle; and she was
not aware how much it concealed the sternness of her pur-
pose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness, made every
expression of indifference seem almost an effort of self-denial;
seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself as
to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who,
as the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria
Bertram, had been her abhorrence, whom she had hated to
see or to speak to, in whom she could believe no good quality
to exist, and whose power, even of being agreeable, she had
barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who
was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love ; whose
feelings were apparently become all that was honourable and
upright, whose views of happiness were all fixed on a marriage
of attachment; who was pouring out his sense of her merits,
describing and describing again his affection, proving, as far
as words could prove it, and in the language, tone, and spirit
of a man of talent, too, that he sought her for her gentleness
and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now
the Mr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion !

Here was a change, and here were claims which couM not
but operate 1 She might have disdained him in all the dignity
of angry virtue, in the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre
at Mansfield Park; but he approached her now with rights
that demanded different treatment. She must be courteous,
and she must be compassionate. She must have a sensation
of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her
brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The
effect of the whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and
words intermingled with her refusal so expressive of obliga-
tion and concern, that to a temper of vanity and hope like
Crawford's, the truth, or at least the strength of her indiffer-

272 mA3^FIELD PA%K

ence, might well be questionable; and he was not so irrational
as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,
assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the
interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go ; but there
was no look of despair in parting to bely his words, or give her
hopes of his being less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angr}^ Some resentment did arise at a
perseverance so selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a
want of delicacy and regard for others which had formerly so
struck and disgusted her. Here was again a something of
the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before.
How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity
where his own pleasure was concerned ; and alas ! how always
known no principle to supply as a duty what the heart was
deficient in ! Had her own affections been as free as perhaps
they ought to have been, he never could have engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she
sat musing over that too great indulgence and luxury of a
fire upstairs ; wondering at the past and present; wondering
at what was yet to come, and in a nervous agitation which
made nothing clear to her, but the persuasion of her being
never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford,
and the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the
morrow for a knowledge of what had passed between the
young people. He then saw Mr. Crawford, and received his
account. The first feeling was disappointment: he had
hoped better things ; he had thought that an hour's intreaty
from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so
little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny ; but there
was speedy comfort in the determined views and sanguine
perseverance of the lover; and when seeing such confidence
of success in the principal. Sir Thomas was soon able to
depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment,
or kindness, that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's
steadiness was honoured, and Fanny was praised, and the
connection was still the most desirable in the world. At
Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome ; he
had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the

mA3^FIELD PA'RK 273

frequency of his visits, at present or in future. In all his
niece's family and friends, there could be but one opinion,
one wish on the subject; the influence of all who loved her
must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every en-
couragement received with grateful joy, and the gentlemen
parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most
proper and hopeful. Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all
farther importunity with his niece, and to show no open
interference. Upon her disposition he believed kindness
might be the best way of working. Intreaty should be from
one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,
respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes,
might be their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly,
on this principle. Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of
saying to her, with a mild gravity, intended to be overcoming,
" Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again, and learnt
from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a
most extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event,
you must feel that you have created an attachment of no
common character; though, young as you are, and little
acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady nature of
love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I am with
all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort against
discouragement. With him, it is entirely a matter of feeling :
he claims no merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none. Yet,
having chosen so well, his constancy has a respectable stamp.
Had his choice been less unexceptionable, I should have
condemned his persevering.''

" Indeed, sir," said Fanny, " I am very sorry that Mr.

Crawford should continue to 1 know that it is paying me

a very great compliment, and I feel most undeservedly
honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I have told
him so, that it never will be in my power "

" My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas, " there is no occasion
for this. Your feelings are as well known to me as my wishes
and regrets must be to you. There is nothing more to be
said or done. From this hour, the subject is never to be
revived between us. You will have nothing to fear, or to be
agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying to

274 (MA:>i&FIELD FA%K

persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your
happiness and advantage are all that I have in view, and
nothing is required of you but to bear with Mr. Crawford's
endeavours to convince you that they may not be incom-
patible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on
safe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever
he calls^ as you might have done had nothing of this sort
occurred. You will see him with the rest of us, in the same
manner, and, as much as you can, dismissing the recollection
of everything unpleasant. He leaves Northamptonshire so
soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be often demanded.
The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear
Fanny, this subject is closed between us."

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think
of with much satisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions,
however, and forbearing manner, were sensibly felt; and
when she considered how much of the truth was unknown
to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at the line
of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to
Mr. Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be
expected from him. She must do her duty, and trust that
time might make her duty easier than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Craw-
ford's attachment would hold out for ever; she could not
but imagine that steady, unceasing discouragement from
herself would put an end to it in time. How much time she
might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is another
concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's
exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence. Sir Thomas found himself
once more obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to
prepare her briefly for its being imparted to her aunts; a
measure which he would still have avoided, if possible, but
which became necessary from the totally opposite feelings of
Mr. Crawford, as to any secrecy of proceeding. He had no
idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage,
where he loved to talk over the future with both his sisters,
and it would be rather gratifying to him to have enlightened
witnesses of the progress of his success. When Sir Thomas
understood this, he felt the necessity of making his ownx wife
and sister-in-law acquainted with the business without delay;

3iA:KSFIELD PA%K 275

though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the effect of
the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself.
He deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir
Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far from classing
Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people who are
always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the
strictest forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not
only promised, but did observe it. She only looked her
increased ill-will. Angry she was : bitterly angry ; but she
was more angry with Fanny for having received such an offer^
than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to Julia,
who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, inde-
pendently of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had
neglected her; and she would have grudged such an elevation
to one whom she had been always trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the
occasion than she deserved; and Fanny could have blessed
her for allowing her only to see her displeasure, and not to
hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty,
and a prosperous beauty, all her life ; and beauty and wealth
were all that excited her respect. To know Fanny to be
sought in marriage by a man of fortune, raised her, therefore,
very much in her opinion. By convincing her that Fanny
was very pretty, which she had been doubting about before,
and that she would be advantageously married, it made her
feel a sort of credit in calling her niece.

" Well, Fanny,'' said she, as soon as they were alone
together afterwards, and she really had known something
like impatience to be alone with her, and her countenance, as
she spoke, had extraordinary animation; " Well, Fanny, I
have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must
just speak of it once, I told Sir Thomas I must once, and then
I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece." And
looking at her complacently, she added, " Humph, we
certainly are a handsome family ! "

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when
hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently
answered —

" My dear aunt, you cannot wish me to do differently

276 3^JDiSFIELD PA^

from what I have done, I am sure. You cannot wish me to' ^
marry ; for you would miss me, should not you ? Yes, I am
sure you would miss me too much for that."

No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when
such an offer as this comes in your way. I could do very well
without you, if you were married to a man of such good
estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be aware, Fanny,
that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very
unexceptionable offer as this.''

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of
advice, which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the
course of eight years and a half. It silenced her. She felt ,
how unprofitable contention would be. If her aunt's feelings j
were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her
understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.

" I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, " I am sure he
fell in love with you at the ball ; I am sure the mischief was
done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Every-
body said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you know you had
Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chap-
man to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was
done that evening." And still pursuing the same cheerful
thoughts, she soon afterwards added, " And I will tell you
what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Maria, the next
time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy."

CH^PTE%^XXXIF

Edmund had great things to hear on liis return. Many
surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was
not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and
his sister walking together through the village as he rode
into it. He had concluded — he had meant them to be far
distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight
purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to
Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy re-
membrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self
was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found
himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from

31A3<^FIELD PA^I^K 277

the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking
of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from
him in inclination than any distance could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have
hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did
from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he
would have expected anything rather than a look of satisfac-
tion, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough
to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the
properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful
surprises at hand.

William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon
master of; and with such a secret provision of comfort
within his own breast to help the joy, he found in it a source
of most gratifying sensation, and unvarying cheerfulness all
dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had
Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the last
fortnight, and the present situation of matters at Mansfield
were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much
longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure
they must be talking of her; and when tea at last brought
them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she
felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her,
took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment
she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which
the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion
in some unpardonable excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be con-
veying to her that unqualified approbation and encourage-
ment which her hopes drew from it. It was designed only
to express his participation in all that interested her, and to
tell her that he had been hearing what quickened every feel-
ing of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's side
of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's
at her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her
to consider him with anything like a preference, he had
always believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine
her to be taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas could
not regard the connection as more desirable than he did. It

278 MASiSFlELD PA%K

had every recommendation to him; and while honouring her
ror what she had done under the influence of her present
indifference^ honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir
Thomas could quite echo^ he was most earnest in hoping, and
sanguine in believing, that it would be a match at last, and
that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that their
dispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in
each other, as he was now beginning seriously to consider
them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had not
given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong
end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposi-
tion as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out
a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny^s
embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard against
exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's
return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask
him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment.
He staid of course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity
for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of
immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from
her manners ; and it was so little, so very, very little (every
chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrass-
ment only : if there was not hope in her confusion, there was
hope in nothing else), that he was almost ready to wonder at
his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held
her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of
mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself
with any woman breathing, without something more to warm
his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very
willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the
most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come
to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and
after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he
thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked
into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as
intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to
care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently
deep tranquillity.

" We have not been so silent all the time," replied his

mAD^SFIELD PA'RK 279

mother. " Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the
book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough
there was a book on the table which had the air of being
very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. " She often
reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle
of a very fine speech of that man's — what's his name, Fanny
— when we heard your footsteps."

Crawford took the volume. " Let me have the pleasure of
finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall
find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the
inclination of the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or
two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured
him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey,
that he had got the very speech. Not a look, or an offer of
help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her
attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be
interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her.
She could not abstract her mind five minutes ; she was forced
to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good
reading extreme. To good reading, however, she had been long
used; her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well,
but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excel-
lence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the
Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in
turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of
jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the
best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were
dignity or pride, or tenderness or remorse, or whatever were
to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was
truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny what
pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his
acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoy-
ment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback
as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage
with Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was
amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened
in the needle-work, which at the beginning, seemed to occupy
her totally ; how it fell from her hand while she sat motionless
over it, and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so
studiously to avoid him throughout the day, were turned and

28o mAO^SFIELD PAVJC

fixed on Crawford; fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him,
in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and
the book was closed, and the charm was broken. Then she
was shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working
as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give Edmund
encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked
him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings
too.

" That play must be a favourite with you," said he; " you
read as if you knew it well."

" It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied
Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume of
Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once
saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard of it from some-
body who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare one
gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an
Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are
so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere ; one is
intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can
open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into
the flow of his meaning immediately."

" No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,"
said Edmund, " from one's earliest years. His celebrated
passages are quoted by everybody ; they are in half the books
we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and
describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct
from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in
bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty
thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him
well aloud is no every-day talent."

" Sir, you do me honour," was Crawford's answer, with a
bow of mock gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of
accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feel-
ing that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her
attention ; that must content them.

Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly
too. It was really like being at a play," said she. " I
wish Sir Thomas had been here."

Cniwford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram,
with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the

31AD<^FIELD J^/l^ 281

inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was,
must feel, was elevating.

" You have a great turn for acting, I am snre, Mr. Craw-
ford,'' said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell
you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or
other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean when you are
settled there. I do, indeed. I think you will fit up a
theatre at your house in Norfolk."

Do you, ma'am? " cried he, with quickness. " No, nvO,
that will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No^
theatre at Everingham ! Oh, no ! " And he looked at Fanny
with an expressive smile, which evidently meant, that lady
will never allow a theatre at Everingham."
\ Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined not to
1 see it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough to
convey the full meaning of the protestation; and such a
quick consciousness of compliment, such a ready compre-
hension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The
two young men were the only talkers, but they, standing by
the fire, talked over the too common neglect of the qualifi-
cation, the total inattention to it, in the ordinary school-
system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in some
instances almost unn>atural, degree of ignorance and uncouth-
ness of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when sud-
denly called to the necessity of reading aloud, which had
fallen within their notice, giving instances of blunders, and
failures with their secondary causes, the want of manage-
ment of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of
foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause :
want of early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening
again with great entertainment.

Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile,
how little the art of reading has been studied! how little a
clear manner, and good delivery, have been attended to ! I
speak rather of the past, however, than the present. There
is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among those
who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger
number, to judge by their performance, must have thought
reading was reading, and preaching was preaching. It is
different now. The subject is more justly considered. It is

282 ^A.\SFIELD PA%K

felt that distinctness and energy may have weight in recom-^
mending the most solid truths; and besides there is more
general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge
diffused than formerly; in every congregation there is a
larger proportion who know a little of the matter, and who
can judge and criticise."

^ Edmund had already gone through the service once since
his ordination; and upon this being understood, he had a
variety of questions from Crawford as to his feelings and suc-
cess; questions, which being made, though with the vivacity
of friendly interest and quick taste, without any touch of
that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to
be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfy-
ing; and when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and
give his own as to the properest manner in which particular
passages in the service should be delivered, showing it to be
a subject on which he had thought before, and thought with
judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This
would be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be won
by all that gallantry and wit and good-nature together, could
do; or at least, she would not be won by them nearly so
soon, without the assistance of sentiment and feeling, and
seriousness on serious subjects.

Our liturgy," observed Crawford, " has beauties, which
not even a careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy;
but it has also redundancies and repetitions which require
good reading not to be felt. For myself, at least, I must
confess being not always so attentive as I ought to be " (here
was a glance at Fanny); that nineteen times out of twenty,
I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and long-
ing to have it to read myself. Did you speak? " stepping
eagerly to Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice ; and
upon her saying No," he added, " Are you sure you did not
speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you might be
going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not allow
my Sioughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so? "

No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to —

even supposing "

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not
be prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several
minutes of supplication and waiting. He then returned to

^AO^FIELD FA%K 283

his former station^ and went on as if there had been no such
tender interruption.

'' A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than
prayers well read. A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing.
It is more difficult to speak well than to compose well ; that
is, the rules and trick of composition are oftener an object of
study. A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly well delivered,
is a capital gratification. I can never hear such a one without
the greatest admiration and respect, and more than half a
mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something
in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence,
which is entitled to the highest praise and honour. The
preacher who can touch and affect such an heterogeneous
mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long worn thread-
bare in all common hands; who can say anything new or
striking, anything that rouses the attention, without offend-
ing the taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a
man whom one could not in his public capacity honour
enough. I should like to be such a man."

Edmund laughed.
I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished
preacher in my life without a sort of envy. But then, I must
have a London audience. I could not preach but to the
educated ; to those who were capable of estimating my com-
position. And I do not know that I should be fond of
preaching often; now and then, perhaps, once or twice in
the spring, after being anxiously expected for half-a-dozen
Sundays together; but not for a constancy; it would not do
for a constancy.''

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook
her head, and Crawford was instantly by her side again,
intreating to know her meaning ; and as Edmund perceived,
by his drawing in a chair, and sitting down close by her, that
it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks and under-
tones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible
into a comer, turned his back, and took up a newspaper,
very sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be per-
suaded into explaining away that shake of the head to the
satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to
bury every sound of the business from himself in murmurs
of his own, over the various advertisements of A most

284 mAS^FIELD PA1{K

desirable Estate in South Wales;" ''To Parents and
Guardians; " and a '' Capital seasoned Hunter."

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been
as motionless as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart
to see Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything in
the power of her modest, gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Craw-
ford, and avoid both his looks and enquiries; and he,
unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

''What did that shake of the head mean?" said he.
" What was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear.
But of what? What had I been saying to displease you?
Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly, irreverently
on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if I
was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I intreat you ;
for one moment put down your work. What did that shake
of the head mean? "

In vain was her " Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford; "
repeated twice over ; and in vain did she try to move away.
In the same low, eager voice, and the same close neighbour-
hood, he went on, re-urging the same questions as before.
She grew more agitated and displeased.

" How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder
how you can "

" Do I astonish you? " said he. " Do you wonder? Is
there anything in my present intreaty that you do not
understand ? I will explain to you instantly all that makes
me urge you in this manner, all that gives me an interest in
what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I
will not leave you to wonder long."

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she
said nothing.

" You shook your head at my acknowledging that I
should not Ifke to engage in the duties of a clergyman always
for a constancy. Yes, that was the word. Constancy: I
am not afraid of the word. I would spell it, read it, write it
with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did
you think I ought? "

'* Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speak-
ing; "perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not
always know yourself as well as you seemed to do at that
moment."

{MANSFIELD PA^ 285

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was
\ determined to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped
to silence him by such an extremity of reproof, found herself
sadly mistaken, and that it was only a change from one
object of curiosity and one set of words to another. He had
always something to intreat the explanation of. The oppor-
tunity was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing
her in her uncle's room, none such might occur again before
his leaving Mansfield. Lady Bertram's being just on the
other side of the table was a trifle, for she might always be
considered as only half awake, and Edmund's advertisements
were still of the first utility.

Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions
and reluctant answers; " I am happier than I was, because
I now understand more clearly your opinion of me. You
think me unsteady; easily swayed by the whim of the
moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an

opinion, no wonder that . But we shall see. It is not

by protestations that I shall endeavour to convince you I am
wronged; it is not by telling you that my affections are
steady. My conduct shall speak for me ; absence, distance,
time shall speak for me. They shall prove that, as far as you
can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are
infinitely my superior in merit; all that I know. You have
qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a
degree in any human creature. You have some touches of
the angel in you beyond what — not merely beyond what one
sees, because one never sees anything like it — ^but beyond
what one fancies might be. But still I am not frightened.
It is not by equality of merit that you can be won. That is
out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your
merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has
the best right to a return. There I build my confidence.
By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once
convinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know
you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes,
dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay — " (seeing her draw back
displeased) — " forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right;
but by what other name can I call you ? Do you suppose you
are ever present to my imagination under any other? No,
it is * Fanny ' that I think of all day, and dream of all night.

286 mAO^FIELD PJ'1{K

You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that
nothing else can now be descriptive of you."

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or
have refrained from at least trying to get away in spite of all
the too public opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for
the sound of approaching relief, the very sound which she
had been long watching for, and long thinking strangely,
delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of teaboard,
urn, and cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered
her from a grievous imprisonment of body and mind. Mr.
Crawford was obliged to move. She was at liberty, she was
busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the
number of those who might speak and hear. But though the
conference had seemed full long to him, and though on looking
at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation, he inclined to hope
that so much could not have been said and listened to, with-
out some profit to the speaker.

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny
to chuse whether her situation with regard to Crawford should
be mentioned between them or not; and that if she did not
lead the way, it should never be touched on by him; but
after a day or two of mutual resen^e, he was induced by his
father to change his mind, and try what his influence might
do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the
Crawfords* departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be
as well to make one more effort for the young man before he
left Mansfield, that all his professions and vows of unshaken
attachment might have as much hope to sustain them as
possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection
of Mr. Crawford's character in that point. He wished him. to
be a model of constancy; and fancied the best means of
effecting it would be by not trying him too long.

mA^KSPlELD PA%K 287

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the
business; he wanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had
been used to consult him in every difficulty^ and he loved her
too well to bear to be denied her confidence now ; he hoped
to be of service to her, he thought he must be of service to
her; whom else had she to open her heart to ? If she did not
need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication.
Fanny estranged from him, silent, and reserved, was an un-
natural state of things; a state which he must break through,
and which he could easily learn to think she was wanting him
to break through.

" I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of
speaking to her alone," was the result of such thoughts as
these; and upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that
very time walking alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined
her.

I am come to walk with you, Fanny,'' said he. " Shall
I } " Drawing her arm within his. " It is a long while since
we have had a comfortable walk together."

She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her
spirits were low.

" But, Fanny," he presently added, " in order to have a
comfortable walk, something more is necessary than merely
pacing this gravel together. You must talk to me. I know
you have something on your mind. I know what you are
thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I
to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself "

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, " If you hear
of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to
tell."

" Not of facts, perhaps ; but of feelings, Fanny. No one
but you can tell me them. I do not mean to press you,
however. If it is not what you wish yourself, I have done.
I had thought it might be a relief."

" I am afraid we think too differently, for me to find any
relief in talking of what I feel."

" Do you suppose that we think differently.^ I have no
idea of it. I dare say, that on a comparison of our opinions,
they would be found as much alike as they have been used to
be: to the point — I consider Crawford's proposals as most
advantageous and desirable, if you could return his affection.

288 mASiSFIELD PA^K

I consider it as most natural that all your family should wish
you could return it; but that as you cannot^ you have done
exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any
disagreement between us here? "

" Oh^ no ! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you
were against me. This is such a comfort ! "

" This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had
you sought it. But how could you possibly suppose me
against you? How could you imagine me an advocate for
marriage without love? Were I even careless in general on
such matters, how could you imagine me so where your
happiness was at stake? "

My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been
talking to you."

As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly
right. I may be sorry, I may be surprised: though hardly
thai, for you had not had time to attach yourself: but I think
you perfectly right. Can it admit of a question? It is
disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him ; nothing
could have justified your accepting him."

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were
quite mistaken who wished you to do otherwise. But the
matter does not end here. Crawford's is no common attach-
ment; he perseveres, with the hope of creating that regard
which had not been created before. This, we know, must be
a work of time. But " (with an affectionate smile), " let him
succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have
proved yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself
grateful and tender-hearted ; and then you will be the perfect
model of a woman, which I have always believed you bom
for."

"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with
me." And as she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished
Edmund, and which she blushed at the recollection of herself,
when she saw his look, and heard him reply, Never ! Fanny !
— so very determined and positive ! This is not like yourself,
your rational self."

" I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, that
I think I never shall, as far as the future can be answered for;
I think I never shall return his regard."

mASiSFIELD PA%K 289

" I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware
lan Crawford can be, that the man who means to make you
)ve him (you having due notice of his intentions) must have
ery up-hill work, for there are all your early attachments
nd habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart
)r his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon
[lings animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth
ave confirmed, and which are considerably tightened for
tie moment by the very idea of separation. I know that the
pprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a time
e arming you against him. I wish he had not been obliged

0 tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known
ou as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should
ave won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge
ogether, could not have failed. He should have worked
pon my plans. I must hope, however, that time proving

; im (as I firmly believe it will), to deserve you by his steady
ffection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that
'OU have not the wish to love him — the natural wish of
ratitude. You must have some feeling of that sort. You
lust be sorry for your own indifference.''

We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct
nswer, " we are so very, very different in all our inclinations
nd ways, that I consider it as quite impossible we should
ver be tolerably happy together, even if I cotdd hke him.
?here never were two people more dissimilar. We have not

1 tne taste in common. We should be miserable."

' " You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so
trong. You are quite enough alike. You have tastes in
ommon. You have moral and literary tastes in common.
Ion have both warm hearts and benevolent feeUngs ; and,

M'anny, who that heard him read, and saw you Hsten to
ihakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as com-
>anions? You forget yourself: there is a decided difference
Q your tempers, I allow. He is lively, you are serious ; but

. 0 much the better; his spirits will support yours. It is your
lisposition to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties
greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract this,
le sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety
nil be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike,
^'anny, does not in the smallest degree make against the

K

290 mA3<SFIELD PA%K

probability of your happiness together: do not imagine it
I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circum
stance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers hac
better be unlike : I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, ii
the manners, in the inclination for much or little company
in the propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to bi
gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced
friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes
of course; and a very close resemblance in all those point
would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme. J
counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard o:
manners and conduct.''

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now
Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had beet
speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home
His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at thi
Parsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes
Fanny feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, anc
said, " It is not merely in temper that I consider him aj
totally unsuited to myself, though, in that respect, I think thi
difference between us too great, infinitely too great; hi!
spirits often oppress me : but there is something in him whicl
I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot
approve his character. I have not thought well of him frorr
the time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared
to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly — I may speak of it
now because it is all over — so improperly by poor Mr. Rush-
worth, not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, anc
paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which — in short, ai|
the time of the play, I received an impression which will nevei
be got over."

My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing hei
to the end, " let us not, any of us, be judged by what we
appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the
play is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong
Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together ; bm
none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all tht
rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyte
open."

" As a by-stander," said Fanny, perhaps I saw more

31ADiSFIELD PA%K

than you did ; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was some-
times very jealous."

" Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more
improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever
I think that Maria could be capable of it; but^ if she could
undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the
rest."

" Before the play, I am much mistaken, if Julia did not
think he was paying her attentions."

" Julia ! I have heard before from some one of his being in
love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And,
Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good
qualities, I think it very possible that they might, one or
both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford, and
might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was
perfectly prudent. I can remember that they were evidently
fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man
like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking,
might be led on to — There could be nothing very striking,
because it is clear that he had no pretensions : his heart was
reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has
raised him inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the
highest honour; it shows his proper estimation of the blessing
of domestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him
unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in short, everything
that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he
was not.'*

I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on
serious subjects."

" Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious
subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case. How
could it be otherwise, with such an education and adviser?
Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both have had, is
it not wonderful that they should be what they are? Craw-
ford's feelings, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto
been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have
generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most
• fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature — to
I a woman, who firm as a rock in her own principles, has a
^ gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them.
» He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity ; he will

make you happy, Fanny ; I know he will make you happy ;
but you will make him everything."

I would not engage in such a charge/' cried Fanny, in a
shrinking accent; in such an office of high responsibility! "

" As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything !
fancying everything too much for you 1 Well, though I may
not be able to persuade you into different feelings, you will
be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess myself sincerely
anxious that you may. I have no common interest in Craw-
ford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has
the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no
common interest in Crawford."

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say;
and they walked on together some fifty yards in mutual
silence and abstraction. Edmund first began again: —

" I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it
yesterday, particulady pleased, because I had not depended
upon her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she
was very fond of you ; but yet I was afraid of her not estimat-
ing your worth to her brother quite as it deserved, and of her
regretting that he had not rather fixed on some woman of
distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those
worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear.
But it was very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as
she ought. She desires the connection as warmly as your
uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I should not
have mentioned the subject, though very anxious to know
her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes,
before she began introducing it with all that openness of
heart, and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and
ingenousness which are so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant
laughed at her for her rapidity."

" Was Mrs, Grant in the room, then? "

" Yes, when I reached the house, I found the two sisters
together by themselves; and when once we had begun, we
had not done with you, Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant
came in."

" It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."
Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best.
You will see her, however, before she goes. She is very
angry with you, Fanny; you must be prepared for that.

mADiSFIELD PA%K 293

She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her anger.
It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks
her brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the
first moment. She is hurt, as you would be for William;
but she loves and esteems you with all her heart."
" I knew she would be very angry with me."

My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm
closer to him, " do not let the idea of her anger distress you.
It is anger to be talked of rather than felt. Her heart is
made for love and kindness, not for resentment. I wish you
could have overheard her tribute of praise ; I wish you could
have seen her countenance, when she said that you should be
Henry's wife. And I observed, that she always spoke of you
as ' Fanny,' which she was never used to do ; and it had a
sound of most sisterly cordiality."

And Mrs. Grant, did she say — did she speak; was she
there all the time ? "

Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The sur-
prise of your refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded.
That you could refuse such a man as Henry Crawford, seem.s
more than they can understand. I said what I could for
you; but in good truth, as they stated the case — you must
prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can, by a
different conduct; notlung else will satisfy them. But this
is teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away from me."

" I should have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of
recollection and exertion, " that every woman must have
felt the possibility of a man's not being approved, not being
loved by some one of her sex, at least, let him be ever so
generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the
world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain, that a
man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to
like himself. But, even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Craw-
ford to have all the claims which his sisters think he has, how
was I to be prepared to meet him with any feeling answerable
to his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had not an
idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and
surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only
because he was taking what seemed very idle notice of me.
In my situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity
to be forming expectations on Mr. Crawford. I am sure his

2 94 ^ADiSFIELD PA%K

sisters^ rating him as they do^ must have thought it so, sup-
posing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to be — to
be in love with him the moment he said he was with me?
How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as
it was asked for? His sisters should consider me as well as
him. The higher his deserts, the more improper for me ever to
have thought of him. And, and — we think very differently
of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so very
soon capable of returning an affection, as this seems to imply."

" My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know
this to be the truth ; and most worthy of you are such feelings.
I had attributed them to you before. I thought I could
understand you. You have now given exactly the explana-
tion which I ventured to make for you to your friend and
Mrs. Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your
warm-hearted friend was still run away with a little, by the
enthusiasm of her fondness for Henry. I told them, that
you were of all human creatures the one over whom habit
had most power and novelty least; and that the very cir-
cumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against
him. Their being so new and so recent was all in their dis-
favour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not
used to; and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give
them a knowledge of your character. Miss Crawford made
us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother.
She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved
in time, and of having his addresses most kindly received at
the end of about ten years' happy marriage."

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here
asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared she
had been doing wrong: saying too much, overacting the
caution which she had been fancying necessary; in guarding
against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to have
Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment,
and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and imme-
diately resolved to forbear all farther discussion; and not
even to mention the name of Crawford again, except as it
might be connected with what must be agreeable to her.
On this principle, he soon after^vards observed —

" They go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing

mA^iSFIELD PA%K 295

your friend either to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on
Monday; and I was within a trifle of being persuaded to stay
at Lessingby till that very day ! I had almost promised it.
What a difference it might have made! Those five or six
days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life."
" You were near staying there ? "

" Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly con-
sented. Had I received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me
how you were all going on, I believe I should certainly have
staid; but I knew nothing that had happened here for a
fortnight, and felt that I had been away long enough."

" You spent your time pleasantly there? "

" Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did
not. They were all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me
so. I took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid
of it till I was in Mansfield again."

** The Miss Owens — ^you liked them, did not you ? "

" Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected
girls. But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society.
Good-humoured, unaffected girls will not do for a man who
has been used to sensible women. They are two distinct
orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me
too nice."

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw
it in her looks, it could not be talked away ; and in attempt-
ing it no more, he led her directly, with the kind authority
of a privileged guardian, into the house.

CHAFTE%^ XXXVI

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all
that Fanny could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her
sentiments, and he was satisfied. It had been, as he before
presumed, too hasty a measure on Crawford's side, and time
must be given to make the idea first familiar, and then agree-
able to her. She must be used to the consideration of his
being in love with her, and then a return of affection might
not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to

296 mA3<^FlELD PA%K

his father ; and recommended there being nothing more said
to her: no farther attempts to influence or persuade; but
that everything should be left to Crawford's assiduities, and
the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's
account of Fanny's disposition he could believe to be just;
he supposed she had all those feelings, but he must consider
it as very unfortunate that she had ; for, less willing than
his son to trust to the future, he could not help fearing that
if such very long allowances of time and habit were necessary
for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving
his addresses properly, before the young man's inclination
for paying them were over. There was nothing to be done,
however, but to submit quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from her friend," as Edmund called
Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she
lived in continual terror of it. As a sister, so partial and so
angry, and so little scrupulous of what she said, and in another
light so triumphant and secure, she was in every way an
object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration
and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the
dependence of having others present when they met, was
Fanny's only support in looking forward to it. She absented
herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away
from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the shrub-
bery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.

She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with
her aunt, when Miss Crawford did come ; and the first misery
over, and Miss Crawford looking and speaking with much
less particularity of expression than she had anticipated,
Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be
endured than an half hour of moderate agitation. But here
she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of
opportunity. She was determined to see Fanny alone, and
therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, " I must
speak to you for a few minutes somewhere; " words that
Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerv^es.
Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on
the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the
way out of the room. She did it with wretched feelings, but
it was inevitable.

mA3^FIELD PA%K 297

. They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of
countenance was over on Miss Crawford's side. She imme-
diately shook her head at Fanny with arch, yet, affectionate
reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly able to help
beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, " Sad,
sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding
you," and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they
might be secure of having four walls to themselves. Fanny
naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to the apart-
ment which was now always fit for comfortable use; opening
the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that
she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that
spot had yet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her,
was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's
ideas; by the strong effect on her mind which the finding
herself in the East room again produced.

"Ha!" she cried, with instant animation, "am I here
again? The East room! Once only was I in this room
before; " and after stopping to look about her, and seemingly
to retrace all that had then passed, she added, " once only
before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your
cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal You were our
audience and prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall
never forget it. Here we were, just in this part of the room;
here was your cousin, here was I, here were the chairs. Oh !
why will such things ever pass away? "

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her
mind was entirely self -engrossed. She was in a reverie of
sweet remembrances.

" The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable !
The subject of it so very — very— what shall I say ? He was
to be describing and recommending matrimony to me. I
think I see him now, trying to be as demure and composed as
Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. ^ When two
sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony
may be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can ever
wear out the impression I have of his looks and voice as he
said those words. It was curious, very curious that we
should have such a scene to play! If I had the power of
recalling any one week of my existence, it should be that
week — that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it

298 mAS^FIELD PA^

should be that; for I never knew such exquisite happiness
in any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did 1 Oh ! it
was sweet beyond expression. But alas, that very evening
destroyed it all. That very evening brought your most un-
welcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you ?
Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespect-
fully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did hate him for
many a week. No, I do him justice now. He is just what
the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober sadness,
I believe I now love you all.'' And having said so, with a
degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had
never seen in her before, and now thought only too becoming,
she turned away for a moment to recover herself. " I have
had a little fit since I came into this room, as you may per-
ceive," said she presently, with a playful smile, " but it is
over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to
scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I
have not the heart for it when it comes to the point.'' And
embracing her very affectionately, " Good, gentle Fanny !
when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I
do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do
anything but love you."

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of
this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy
influence of the word " last." She cried as if she had loved
Miss Crawford more than she possibly could; and Miss Craw-
ford, yet farther softened by the sight of such emotion, hung
about her with fondness, and said, " I hate to leave you. I
shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who
says we shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that
we are bom to be connected; and those tears convince me
that you feel it too, dear Fanny."

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, But
you are only going from one set of friends to another. You
are going to a very particular friend."

" Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate
friend for years. But I have not the least inclination to go
near her. I can think only of the friends I am leaving; my
excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in general. You
have all so much more heart among you than one finds in the
world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to

mADiSFIELD PA%K. 299

trust and confide in you^ which in common intercourse one
knows nothing of. I wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not
to go to her till after Easter, a much better time for the visit,
but now I cannot put her off. And when I have done with
her, I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because she
was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have
not cared much for Jier these three years."

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent,
each thoughtful; Fanny meditating on the different sorts of
friendship in the world, Mary on something of less philosophic
tendency. She first spoke again.

" How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you
upstairs, and setting off to find my way to the East room,
without having an idea whereabouts it was ! How well I
remember what I was thinking of as I came along, and my
looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at work ;
and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the
door, at seeing me here ! To be sure, your uncle's returning
that very evening ! There never was anything quite like it.''

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it
off, she thus attacked her companion.

Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking,
I hope, of one who is always thinking of you. Oh ! that I
could transport you for a short time into our circle in town,
that you might understand how your power over Henry is
thought of there ! Oh ! the envyings and heartburnings' of
dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be
felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy,
Henry is quite the hero of an old romance, and glories in his
chains. You should come to London to know how to esti-
mate your conquest. If you were to see how he is courted,
and how I am courted for his sake ! Now, I am well aware
that I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in conse-
quence of his situation with you. When she comes to know
the truth she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire
again; for there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife,
whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take.
Oh ! she has been trying for him to such a degree. Innocent
and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the
sensation that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there
will be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to

300

mA:K§FlELD PA'J{K

answer ! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about
your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and
who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for
my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be about
as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was
a most desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all
delighted. She could not do otherwise than accept him, for
he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tem-
pered and exigeant, and wants a young woman, a beautiful
young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.
And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem
to know how to make the best of it. There is a spirit of
irritation which, to say nothing worse, is certainly very ill-
bred. In their house I shall call to mind the conjugal
manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even Dr.
Grant does show a thorough confidence in my sister, and a
certain consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel
there is attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the
Frasers. I shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own
sister as a wife. Sir Thomas Bertram as a husband, are my
standards of perfection. Poor Janet has been sadly taken in,
and yet there was nothing improper on her side ; she did not
run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of
foresight. She took three days to consider of his proposals,
and during those three days asked the advice of everybody
connected with her whose opinion was worth having, and
especially applied to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of
the world made her judgment very generally and deservedly
looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance,
and she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems
as if nothing were a security for matrimonial comfort. I
have not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a
very nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid
Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as
Mr. Rushworth, but much worse looking, and with a black-
guard character. I had my doubts at the time about her
being right, for he has not even the air of a gentleman, and
now I am sure she was wrong. By-the-bye, Flora Ross was
dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I
to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known
to be in love with him, I should never have done. It is

311 AJiS FIELD PA%K 301

you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him with
anything like indifference. But are you so insensible as you
profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not."

There was indeed so deep a blush over Fanny's face at
that moment, as might warrant strong suspicion in a pre-
disposed mind.

Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything
shall take its course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that
you were not so absolutely unprepared to have the question
asked as your cousin fancies. It is not possible but that you
must have had some thoughts on the subject, some surmises
as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying
to please you by every attention in his power. Was not he
devoted to you at the ball? And then before the ball, the
necklace ! Oh ! you received it just as it was meant. You
were as conscious as heart could desire. I remember it
perfectly."

Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the neck-
lace beforehand? Oh! Miss Crawford, that was not fair."

Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own
thought. I am ashamed to say that it had never entered
my head, but I was delighted to act on his proposal for both
your sakes."

I will not say," replied Fanny, that I was not half
afraid at the time of its being so, for there was something in
your look that frightened me, but not at first; I was as un-
suspicious of it at first; indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as
that I sit here. And had I had an idea of it, nothing should
have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your brother's
behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity; I had
been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three
weeks, but then I considered it as meaning nothing; I put it
down as simply being his way, and was as far from supposing
as from wishing him to have any serious thoughts of me. I
had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what
was passing between him and some part of this family in the
summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I
could not but see that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in
gallantries which did mean nothing."

''Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad
flirt, and cared very little for the havoc he might be making

302 mAOiSFIELD PA%K

in young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it,
but it is his only fault; and there is this to be said, that very
few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. And
then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by
so many; of having it in one's power to pay off the debts of
one's sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman's nature to
refuse such a triumph."

Fanny shook her head. I cannot think well of a man
who sports with any woman's feelings ; and there may often
be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of."

" I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy,
and when he has got you at Everingham I do not care how
much you lecture him. But this I will say, that his fault,
the lildng to make girls a little in love with him, is not half
so dangerous to a wife's happiness, as a tendency to fall in
love himself, which he has never been addicted to. And I
do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a
way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves
you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as
possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I tliink
Henry will do as much for you."

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.
I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,"
continued Mary, presently, than when he had succeeded
in getting your brother's commission."

She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.
Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him."
I know he must have exerted himself very much, for
I know the parties he had to move. The Admiral hates
trouble, and scorns asking favours; and there are so many
young men's claims to be attended to in the same way, that
a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put
by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we
could see him."

Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing
of all its varieties. The recollection of what had been done
for William was always the most powerful disturber of every
decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply
of it till Mary, who had been first watching her complacently,
and then musing on something else, suddenly called her
attention by saying: I should like to sit talking with you

{MA3iSFlELD PA%K

here all day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so
good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for
though we shall nominally part in the breakfast parlour, I
must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, longing
for a happy re-union, and trusting that when we meet again
it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to
each other, without any remnant or shadow of reserve."

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner,
accompanied these words.

I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being
there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the
course of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rush-
worths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again and again, and
all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is your
correspondence. You must write to me. And the other,
that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends
for my being gone."

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not
have been asked ; but it was impossible for her to refuse the
correspondence ; it was impossible for her even not to accede
to it more readily than her own judgment authorised. There
was no resisting so much apparent affection. Her disposi-
tion was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and
from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more
overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude
towards her, for having made their tete-a-tete so much less
painful than her fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and
without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while
that was the case, she thought she could resign herself to
almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting. Henry Craw-
ford came and sat some time with them ; and her spirits not
being previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened
for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel.
Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He
was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,
though hoping she might never see him again, till he were the
husband of some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her
hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however.

304 mA^KSFIELD PA^K

or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room,
she was better pleased that such a token of friendship had
passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.

CH^PTEV^XXXFII

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was, that he
should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his
niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions which
at the time she had felt, or fancied an evil. She had tasted
of consequence in its most flattering form; and he did hope
that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would
awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched
her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success.
He hardly knew whether there were any difference in her
spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring, that her
emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not under-
stand her: he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to
Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the present
occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she
had been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and
thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first
three or four days could produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's
sister, the friend and companion, who had been so much to
her, should not be more visibly regretted. He wondered that
Fanny spoke so seldom of her, and had so little voluntarily
to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who
was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could
have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with
Mansfield as she was determined the brother's should be,
if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant
as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been
light of heart indeed; but the more she recollected and
obsePv^ed, the more deeply was she convinced that ever}^thing

34ADiSFIELD PA%K 305

was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying
Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the
inclination was stronger^ on hers less equivocal. His objec-
tions, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away,
nobody could tell how, and the doubts and hesitations of
her ambition were equally got over; and equally without
apparent reason. It could only be imputed to increasing
attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded to love,
and such love must unite them. He was to go to town, as
soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were com-
pleted, perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going, he
loved to talk of it; and when once with her again, Fanny
could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certain
as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining
which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her, inde-
pendently, she believed, independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of
some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had
still been Miss Crawford; still shown a mind led astray and
bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so, darkened,
yet fancying itself light. She might love, but she did not
deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed
there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them ;
and she may be forgiven by older sages, for looking on the
chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement as nearly
desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this
season of love had already done so little in clearing her judg-
ment, and regulating her notions, his worth would be finally
wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people
so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to
Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general
nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions
of the man she loved and respected as her own. But as such
were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them,
and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes, and
his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his know-
ledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss
of power and consequence on his niece's spirits, and the past
attentions of the lover producing a craving for their return;

3o6 3IA0^FIELD PA%K

and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet
completely and indubitably seeing all this^ by the prospect
of another visitor^ whose approach he could allow to be quite
enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had
obtained a ten days' leave of absence^ to be given to North-
amptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants,
because the latest made, to show his happiness and describe
his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to show his
uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its
appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at
Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny
had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the
freshness of its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It
would be sunk into a badge of disgrace; for what can be
more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the uniform of a
lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees
others made commanders before him ? So reasoned Edmund,
till his father made him the [confidant] of a scheme which
placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of
H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother
back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own
family. It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified
musings, as a right and desirable measure; but before he
absolutely made up his mind, he consulted his son. Edmund
considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was
right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done
at a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly
agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir
Thomas; and a decisive then so it shall be " closed that
stage of the business ; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some
feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and above
what he had communicated to his son ; for his prime motive
in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety
of her seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any
idea of making her happy. He certainly wished her to go
willingly, but he as certainly wished her to be heartily sick
of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence
from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park would
bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster

3Ij:K§field pj%k 307

estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence^
and equal comfort, of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding
which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence
of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had
a little disordered her powers of comparing and judging.
Her father's house would, in all probabihty, teach her the
value of a good income; and he trusted that she would be
the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment
he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have
had a strong attack of them when she first understood what
was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of
visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters, from whom
she had been divided, almost half her life; of returning for
a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William
for the protector and companion of her journey, and the
certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his
remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of
delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but
her happiness was of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort, and
though never a great talker, she was always more inclined to
silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment she
could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised
with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could
speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt;
but still there were emotions of tenderness that could not
be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest
pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being torn from
them, came over her with renewed strength, and it seemed
as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had
since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of
such a circle, loved by so many, and more loved by all than
she had ever been before; to feel affection without fear or
restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded
her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe
from every look which could be fancied a reproach on their
account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness
that could be but half acknowledged.

Edmund, too — to be two months from kiniy and perhaps,
she might be allowed to make her absence three, must do her

3o8 mAD<^FIELD PA%K

good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness,
and safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart,
and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to
reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to
think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,
without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear
at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's
being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one
else; but there she might be missed to a degree that she did
not like to think of ; and that part of the arrangement was,
indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what
only he could have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had
really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it
through; and now by dint of long talking on the subject,
explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes
seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; ob-
taining it rather from submission, however, than conviction,
for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that
Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that
she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the
impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his
bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any
necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother
who had done without her so long, w4iile she was so useful to
herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs.
Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved, she
set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and
dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her
goodness and self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted
to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared {she
being ready to give up all her own time to her as requested)
and in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

" That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply. I
dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her
very much."

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth.
Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer,
though short, w^as so kind — a few simple lines expressed so

3iA3iSFIELD PA%K

natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child
again^ as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in
being with her — convincing her that she should now find a
warm and affectionate friend in the " mamma " who had cer-
tainly shown no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but
this she could easily suppose to have been her own fault or
her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the
helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper^ or been un-
reasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so
many could deserve. Now^ when she knew better how to be
useful^ and how to forbear^ and when her mother could be
no longer occupied by the incessant demands of a house full
of little children^ there would be leisure and inclination for
every comfort^ and they should soon be what mother and
daughter ought to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It
would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to
the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there
still when he came in from his first cruise. And besides, he
wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went
out of harbour (the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in
the service); and there were several improvements in the
dock-yard, too, which he quite longed to show her.

He did not scruple to add, that her being at home for a
while would be a great advantage to everybody.

" I do not know how it is," said he; " but we seem to
want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father's.
The house is always in confusion. You will set things going
in a better way, I am sure. You will tell my mother how it
all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you
will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you.
How right and comfortable it will all be ! "

By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained
but a very few days more to be spent at Mansfield ; and for
part of one of those days, the young travellers were in a good
deal of alarm on the subject of their journey, for when the
mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris found that all
her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money was vain,
and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive
conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she
saw Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose,

310 mAS^FIELD PA%K

she was struck with the idea of there being room for a third
in the carriage^ and suddenly seized with a strong inclination
to go with them, to go and see her poor dear sister Price.
She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that she had
more than half a mind to go with the young people; it would
be such an indulgence to her ; she had not seen her poor dear
sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a
help to the young people in their journey to have her older
head to manage for them; and she could not help thinking
her poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not
to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be
destroyed at once. With woeful countenances they looked
at each other. Their suspense lasted an hour or two. No
one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris was
left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the
infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that
she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at
present; that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir
Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to be able to answer it to
herself to leave them even for a week, and, therefore, must
certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to that of being useful
to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to
Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible for
her to avoid paying her own expenses back again. So her
poor dear sister Price was left to all the disappointment of
her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty years'
absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey,
this absence of Fanny's. He, too, had a sacrifice to make to
Mansfield Park as well as his aunt. He had intended, about
this time, to be going to London; but he could not leave his
father and mother just when everybody else of most import-
ance to their comfort was leaving them ; and with an effort,
felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer
a journey which he was looking forward to with the hope of its
fixing his happiness for ever.

He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that sh
must know everything. It made the substance of one ot\

mA^KSFIELD PA%K 311

confidential discourse about Miss Crawford ; and Fanny was
the more affected from feeling it to be the last time in which
Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned between
them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was
alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece
in the evening to write to her soon and often^ and promising
to be a good correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a
convenient moment, then added in a whisper, " And / shall
write to you, Fanny, when I have anything worth writing
about, anything to say that I think you will like to hear, and
that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter.'' Had
she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his
face, when she looked up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter
from Edmund should be a subject of terror! She began to
feel that she had not yet gone through all the changes of
opinion and sentiment which the progress of time and varia-
tion of circumstances occasion in this world of changes. The
vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted
by her.

Poor Fanny ! though going as she did willingly and eagerly,
the last evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness.
Her heart was completely sad at parting. She had tears for
every room in the house, much more for every beloved
inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because she would miss
her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling sobs,
because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she
could neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last
moment came with him ; and it was not till it was over that
she knew he was giving her the affectionate farewell of a
brother.

All this passed over night, for the journey was to begin
very early in the morning; and when the small, diminished
party met at breakfast, William and Fanny were talked of as
already advanced one stage.

312 3\^1A3^SFIELD PA%K

CHAPTER XXXniI

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with
William, soon produced their natural effect on Fanny's
spirits, when Mansfield Park was fairly left behind; and by
the time their first stage was ended, and they were to quit
Sir Thomas's carriage^ she was able to take leave of the old
coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful
looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was
no end. Everything supplied an amusement to the high
glee of William's mind, and he was full of frolic and joke in
the intervals of their higher-toned subjects, all of which
ended, if they did not begin, in praise of the Thrush, con-
jectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action
with some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant
out of the way, and William was not very merciful to the first
lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon as possible,
or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously
distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough to
make the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny
were to pass all their middle and latter life together.

Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved
Mr. Crawford, made no part of their conversation. William
knew what had passed, and from his heart lamented that his
sister's feelings should be so cold towards a man whom he
must consider as the first of human characters; but he was
of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame;
and knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress
her by the slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by
Mr. Crawford. She had heard repeatedly from his sister
within the three weeks which had passed since their leaving
Mansfield, and in each letter there had been a few Imes from
himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It was a
correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as
she had feared. Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and
affectionate, was itself an evil, independent of what she was

31IAHSFIELD PA%K 313

thus forced into reading from the brother's pen^ for Edmund
would never rest till she had read the chief of the letter to him ;
and then she had to listen to his admiration of her language^
and the warmth of her attachments. There had^ in fact,
been so much of message, of allusion, of recollection, so much
of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but suppose
it meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a
purpose of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which
was bringing her the addresses of the man she did not love,
and obliging her to administer to the adverse passion of the
man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present
removal promised advantage. When no longer under the
same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford
would have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome
the trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence
would dwindle into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others,
Fanny proceeded in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as
expeditiously as could rationally be hoped in the dirty month
of February. They entered Oxford, but she could take only
a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college as they passed along,
and made no stop anywhere, till they reached Newbury,
where a comfortable meal uniting dinner and supper, wound
up the enjoyments and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour;
and with no events, and no delays, they regularly advanced,
and were in the environs of Portsmouth while there was yet
daylight for Fanny to look around her, and wonder at the
new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and entered
the town; and the light was only beginning to fail, as, guided
by William's powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow-
street, leading from the High Street, and drawn up before
the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and appre-
hension. The moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking
maid-servant, seemingly in waiting for them at the door,
stepped forward, and more intent on telling the news than
giving them any help, immediately began with The Thrush
is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has
been here to — " She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of
eleven years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the

314 mAS^FIELD PJ%K

maid aside, and while William was opening the chaise-dooi
himself, called out, " You are just in time. We have been
looking for you this half hour. The Thrush went out of
harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight.
And they think she will have her orders in a day or two.
And Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you:
he has got one of the Thrush's boats, and is going off to her
at six, and hoped you would be here in time to go with him."

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the
carriage, was all the voluntary notice which this brother
bestowed: but he made no objection to her kissing him,
though still entirely engaged in detailing farther particulars
of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in which he had a strong
right of interest, being to commence his career of seamanship
in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-
passage of the house, and in her mother's arms, who met her
there with looks of true kindness, and with features which
Fanny loved the more, because they brought her aunt
Bertram's before her ; and there were her two sisters, Susan, a
well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest
of the family, about five — both glad to see her in their way,
though with no advantage of manner in receiving her. But
manner Fanny did not want. Would they but love her,
she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first
conviction was of its being only a passage-room to something
better, and she stood for a moment expecting to be invited
on ; but when she saw there was no other door, and that there
were signs of habitation before her, she called back her
thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should have
been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long
enough to suspect anything. She was gone again to the
street-door, to welcome William. " Oh! my dear William,
how glad I am to see you. But have you heard about the
Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; three days
before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what
I am to do about Sam's things, they will never be ready in
time; for she may have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It
takes me quite unawares. And now you must be off for
Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a worry

r^MJO^FIELD PAliK 315

about you; and now what shall we do? I thought to have
had such a comfortable evening with you^ and here everything
comes upon me at once."

Her son answered cheerfully^ telling her that everything
was always for the best; and making light of his own in-
convenience^ in being obliged to hurry away so soon.

" To be sure^ I had much rather she had stayed in harbour,
that I might have sat a few hours with you in comfort ; but
as there is a boat ashore, I had better go off at once, and there
is no help for it. Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spit-
head? Near the Canopus? But no matter; here's Fanny
in the parlour, and why should we stay in the passage?
Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear
Fanny yet."

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her
daughter again, and commented a little on her growth,
began with very natural solicitude to feel for their fatigues
and wants as travellers.

Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now,
what will you have ? I began to think you would never come.
Betsey and I have been watching for you this half hour.
And when did you get anything to eat? And what would
you like to have now ? I could not tell whether you would
be for some meat, or only a dish of tea after your journey, or
else I would have got something ready. And now I am
afraid Campbell will be here before there is time to dress a
steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is very incon-
venient to have no butcher in the street. We were better
off in our last house. Perhaps you w^ould like some tea as
soon as it can be got."

They both declared they should prefer it to anything.
" Then, Betsey, my dear, run into the kitchen, and see if
Rebecca has put the water on; and tell her to bring in the
tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could get the bell
mended ; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger."

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to show her abilities
before her fine new sister.

" Dear me! " continued the anxious mother, " what a sad
fire we have got, and I dare say you are both starved with
cold. Draw your chair nearer, my dear. I cannot think
what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told her to bring

3i6 mA3<^FIELD PA%K

some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken
care of the fire."

" I was upstairs, mamma, moving my things," said Susan,
in a fearless, self-defending tone, which startled Fanny.
" You know you had but just settled that my sister Fanny
and I should have the other room; and I could not get
Rebecca to give me any help."

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles ; first,
the driver came to be paid ; then there was a squabble between
vSam and Rebecca about the manner of carrying up his sister's
trunk, which he would manage all his own way; and lastly
in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice preceding
him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his
son's portmanteau and his daughter's band-box in the
passage, and called out for a candle ; no candle was brought,
however, and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but
sank down again on finding herself undistinguished in the
dusk, and unthought of. With a friendly shake of his son's
hand, and an eager voice, he instantly began — " Ha ! welcome
back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the news ?
The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the
word, you see ! By G — , you are just in time ! The doctor
has been here inquiring for you : he has got one of the boats,
and is to be off for Spithead by six, so you had better go with
him. I have been to Turner's about your mess; it is all in
a way to be done. I should not wonder if you had your
orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if
you are to cruise to the westward ; and Captain Walsh thinks
you will certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the
Elephant. By G — , I wish you may ! But old Scholey was
saying, just now, that he thought you would be sent first to
the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever happens.
But by G — , you lost a fine sight by not being here in the
morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour ! I would not
have been out of the way for a thousand pounds. Old
Scholey ran in at breakfast-time, to say she had slipped her
moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and made but
two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty
afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and any-
body in England would take her for an eight-and-twenty.

mA:KSFIELD FA%K. 317

I was upon the platform two hours this afternoon looking at
her. She lays close to the Endymion, between her and the
Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the sheer hulk."

" Ha ! " cried William, " that's just where I should have put
her myself. It's the best berth at Spithead. But here is my
sister, sir; here is Fanny," turning and leading her forward;
it is so dark you do not see her."

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forget her,
Mr. Price now received his daughter; and having given her
a cordial hug, and observed that she was grown into a
woman, and he supposed would be wanting a husband soon,
seemed very much inclined to forget her again.

Fanny shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained
by his language and his smell of spirits; and he talked on
only to his son, and only of the Thrush, though William,
warmly interested as he was, in that subject, more than once
tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long absence
and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained ; but
as there was still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's
reports from the kitchen, much hope of any under a consider-
able period, William determined to go and change his dress,
and make the necessary preparations for his removal on
board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort after-
wards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty,
about eight and nine years old, rushed into it just released
from school, and coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell
that the Thrush was gone out of harbour; Tom and Charles.
Charles had been bom since Fanny's going away, but Tom
she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular
pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly,
but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the
features of the baby she had loved, and talked to, of his
infant preference of herself. Tom, however, had no mind
for such treatment : he came home not to stand and be talked
to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had
soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour door till her
temples ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained
only two brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was

31 8 iMADiSFIELD PA%K

a clerk in a public office in London, and the other midshipman
on board an Indiaman. But though she had seen all the
members of the family, she had not yet heard all the noise
they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her
a great deal more. William was soon calling out, from the
landing-place of the second story, for his mother and for
Rebecca. He was in distress for something that he had left
there, and did not find again. A key was mislaid, Betsey
accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight, but
essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had
been promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey, all went up to defend
themselves, all talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and
the job was to be done, as well as it could, in a great hurry ;
William trying in vain to send Betsey down again, or keep
her from being troublesome where she was; the whole of
which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be
plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at
intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles
chasing each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about
and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house
and thinness of the walls brought everything so close to her,
that, added to the fatigue of her journey, and all her recent
agitation, she hardly knew how to bear it. Within the room
all was tranquil enough, for Susan having disappeared with
the others, there were soon only her father and herself
remaining; and he taking out a newspaper, the accustomary
loan of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without
seeming to recollect her existence. The solitary candle was
held between himself and the paper, without any reference to
her possible convenience; but she had nothing to do, and
was glad to have the light screened from her aching head, as
she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home. But, alas ! it was not such a home, she
had not such a welcome, as — she checked herself; she was
unreasonable. What right had she to be of importance to
her family? She could have none, so long lost sight of!
William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been,
and he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked
about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mans-

mA:}iSFIELD PA^

319

field! It did pain her to have Mansfield forgotten; the
friends who had done so much; the dear, dear friends ! But
here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps it must
be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now pre-
eminently interesting. A day or two might show the differ-
ence. She only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not
have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle's house there
would have been a consideration of times and seasons, a
regulation of subject, a propriety, an attention towards every
body which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received
for nearly half an hour was from a sudden burst of her
father's, not at all calculated to compose them. At a more
than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing in the passage,
he exclaimed, Devil take those young dogs ! How they
are singing out! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest!
That boy is fit for a boatswain. Holloa you there! Sam,
stop your confounded pipe, or I shall be after you."

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though
within five minutes aften\^ards the three boys all burst into
the room together and sat down, Fanny could not consider
it as a proof of anything more than their being for the time
thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and panting breaths
seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each
other's shins, and hallooing out at suddesi starts immediately
under their father's eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more
welcome; it was for the tea-things, which she had begun
almost to despair of seeing that evening. Susan and an
attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed Fanny,
to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper
servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal ; Susan
looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her
sister, as if divided between the agreeable triumph of showing
her activity and usefulness, and the dread of being thought
to demean herself by such an office. " She had been into
the kitchen," she said, " to hurry Sally and help make the
toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know
when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister
must want something after her journey."

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that

320 3d[ADiS FIELD FA%^

she should be very glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately
set about making it, as if pleased to have the employment all
to herself; and with only a Uttle unnecessary bustle, and
some few injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers in
better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head
and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness.
Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like
William, and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition
and good will towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William re-entered,
followed not far behind by his mother and Betsey. He, com-
plete in his lieutenant's uniform, looking and moving all the
taller, firmer, and more graceful for it, and with the happiest
smile over his face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising
from her seat, looked at him for a moment in speechless
admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob
out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered her-
self; and wiping away her tears, was able to notice and
admire all the strilcing parts of his dress; listening with
reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of being on shore some
part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her
to S pithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of
the Thrush, a very well behaved young man, who came to
call for his friend, and for whom there was with some con-
trivance found a chair, and with some hasty washing of the
young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another
quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen,
noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys
at last all in motion together, the moment came for setting
off; everything was ready, William took leave, and all of
them were gone; for the three boys, in spite of their mother's
intreaty, determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell
to the sally-port ; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time
to carry back his neighbour's newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and
accordingly, when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry
away the tea-things, and Mrs. Price had walked about the
room some time looking for a shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at

MA^HSFIELD PA^ 321

last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the small party
of females were pretty well composed, and the mother having
lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam ready
in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and
the friends she had come from.

A few enquiries began: but one of the earliest — How did
sister Bertram manage about her servants? Was she as
much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants ? — soon led
her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her
own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of all
the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own
two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The
Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca,
against whom Susan had also much to depose, and little
Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so thoroughly
without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not
help modestly presuming that her mother meant to part
with her when her year was up.

Her year! " cried Mrs. Price; I am sure I hope I shall
be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will not be
up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my
dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps
them more than half-a-year. I have no hope of ever being
settled ; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only get
something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very diffi-
cult mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy
enough, for there is always a girl under her, and I often do
half the work myself."

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there
might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As
she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think parti-
cularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she
had left there not much younger when she went into North-
amptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There
had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny
in those early days had preferred her to Susan; and when
the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had for
a short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought
the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have
pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. While
considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance,

L

322 iMADiSFIELD PA'liK. j

I

was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to
screen it at the same time from Susan's.

" What have you got there, my love? " said Fanny, " come
and shew it to me."

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as
her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her
mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach, which
she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to interest Fanny
on her side. " It was very hard that she was not to have
her own knife ; it was her own knife ; little sister Mary had
left it to her upon her death-bed, and she ought to have had
it to keep herself long ago. But mamma kept it from her,
and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of
it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own,
though mamma had promised her that Betsey should not have
it in her own hands."

Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour,
and tenderness, was wounded by her sister's speech and her
mother's reply. j

" Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price in a complaining voice,
" now, how can you be so cross ? You are always quarrelling
about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome.
Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you
should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to
the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because
Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time,
Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone
of contention when she gave it me to keep, only two hours
before she died. Poor little soul ! she could but just speak
to be heard, and she said so prettily, * Let sister Susan have
my knife, mamma, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little
dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it
lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of
her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six
weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet
creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come.
My own Betsey (fondling her), you have not the luck of such
a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of
such little people as you."

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Noms, but
a message to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good

MAS^FIELD PA%K

girl, and learnt her book. There had been at one moment a
slight murmur in the drawing-room at Mansfield Park, about
sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound had been
heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone
; home and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband
with that idea; but, upon examination, the ardour of
generosity went off. One was found to have too small a
print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too cumbersome
for her to carry about.
Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept
*: the first invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had
finished her cry at being allowed to sit up only one hour
extraordinary in honour of sister, she was off, leaving all
below in confusion and noise again; the boys begging for
j toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and water,
and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and
scantily-furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan.
The smallness of the rooms above and below, indeed, and the
narrowness of the passage and staircase, struck her beyond
her imagination. She soon learned to think with respect of
her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in that house reckoned
too small for anybody's comfort.

CH^PTE^XXXIX

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when
she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have
despaired ; for though a good night's rest, a pleasant morning,
the hope of soon seeing William again, and the comparatively
quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles being gone
to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father on
his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on
the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect con-
sciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen
only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would
;have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted
,with his own sagacity. °

324 MA^FIELD PA%K

Before the week ended^, it was all disappointment. In the
first place, William was gone. The Thrush had had her
orders, the wind had changed, and he was sailed within four
days from their reaching Portsmouth ; and during those days
she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried way,
when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free
conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dock-
yard, no acquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that
they had planned and depended on. Everything in that
quarter failed her, except William's affection. His last
thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back
again to the door to say, Take care of Fanny, mother. She
is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us. I
charge you, take care of Fanny."

William was gone: and the home he had left her in was,
Fanny could not conceal it from herself, in almost every
respect the very reverse of what she could have wished. It
was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety. Nobody
was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be.
She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her
father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was
more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his
manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did
not want abilities ; but he had no curiosity, and no informa-
tion beyond his profession; he read only the newspaper and
the navy-list; he talked only of the dock-yard, the harbour,
Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he
was dirty and gross. She had never been able to recal any-
thing approaching to tenderness in his former treatment of
herself. There had remained only a general impression of
roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noticed
her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater; there she
had hoped much, and found almost nothing. Every flatter-
ing scheme of being of consequence to her soon fell to the
ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind ; but, instead of gaining
on her affection and confidence, and becoming more and more
dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from her
than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature
was soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other
source. Her heart and her time were already quite full; she

mmvi V *

had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her
daughters never had been much to her. She was fond of her
sons, especially William, but Betsey was the first of her girls
whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most
injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her
darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles, occupied
all the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries
and her comforts. These shared her heart: her time was
given chiefly to her house and her servants. Her days were
spent in a kind of slow bustle; always busy without getting
on, always behind hand and lamenting it, without altering
her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance
or regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to
make them better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or
indulging them, without any power of engaging their respect.

Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled
Lady Bertram than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by
necessity, without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it,
or any of her activity. Her disposition was naturally easy
and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of similar
affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more
suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of
the one which her imprudent marriage had placed her in.
She might have made just as good a woman of consequence
as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more
respectable mother of nine children on a small income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She
might scruple to make use of the words, but she must and
did feel that her mother was a partial, ill-judging parent,
a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught nor restrained her
children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and
discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no
conversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to
know her better, no desire of her friendship, and no inclina-
tion for her company that could lessen her sense of such
feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear
above her home, or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by
her foreign education, from contributing her help to its
comforts, and therefore set about working for Sam immedi-
ately, and by working early and late, with perseverance and

326 mA3^FIELD PA'^K

great dispatch, did so much that the boy was shipped off at
last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great
pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how
they would have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted
when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to
be employed in any errand in the town ; and though spuming
the remonstrances of Susan, given as they were, though very
reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and powerless
warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services
and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the
three younger ones was gone in him; Tom and Charles being
at least as many years as they were his juniors distant from
that age of feeling and reason, which might suggest the ex-
pediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to be less
disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the
smallest impression on them; they were quite un tameable
by any means of address which she had spirits or time to
attempt. Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous
games all over the house ; and she very early learned to sigh
at the approach of Saturday's constant half holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the
alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at
her pleasure, and then encouraged to report any evil of them,
she was almost as ready to despair of being able to love or
assist; and of Susan's temper she had many doubts. Her
continual disagreements with her mother, her rash squabbles
with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at
least so distressing to Fanny, that though admitting they
were by no means without provocation, she feared the dis-
position that could push them to such length must be far
from amiable, and from affording any repose to herself.
^ Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her
head, and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with
moderated feehngs. On the contrary, she could think of
nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways.
Everything where she now was was in full contrast to it.
The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps,
above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were
brought to her remembrance every hour of the day, by the
prevalence of everything opposite to them here.

MAHSFIELD PA%K 327

The living in incessant noise was^ to a frame and temper
delicate and nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no super-
added elegance or harmony could have entirely atoned for.
It was the greatest misery of all. At Mansfield, no sounds of
contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of
violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course
of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance;
everybody's feelings were consulted. If tenderness could
be ever supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding
supplied its place; and as to the little irritations, sometimes
introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they were trifling,
they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with
the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here, everybody
was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her
mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady
Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness). Whatever was
wanted was halloo'd for, and the servants halloo'd out their
excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant
banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done
without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could
command attention when they spoke.

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her
before the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to
them Dr. Johnson's celebrated judgment as to matrimony
and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield Park might
have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.

CH^PTE% XL

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss
Crawford now, at the rapid rate in which their correspon-
dence had begun; Mary's next letter was after a decidedly
longer interval than the last, but she was not right in suppos-
ing that such an interval would be felt a great relief to herself.
Here was another strange revolution of mind! She was
really glad to receive the letter when it did come. In her
present exile from good society, and distance from everything
that had been wont to interest her, a letter from one belonging

328 PA%K

to the set where her heart lived, written with affection, and
some degree of elegance, was thoroughly acceptable. The
usual plea of increasing engagements was made in excuse
for not having written to her earlier; " and now that I have
begun/' she continued, my letter will not be worth your
reading, for there will be no little offering of love at the end,
no three or four lines passionnees from the most devoted
H. C. in the world, for Henry is in Norfolk; business called
him to Everingham ten days ago, or perhaps he only pre-
tended to call, for the sake of being travelling at the same
time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his
absence may sufficiently account for any remissness of his
sister's in writing, for there has been no * Well, Mary, when
do you write to Fanny ? Is not it time for you to write to
Fanny } ' to spur me on. At last, after various attempts at
meeting, I have seen your cousins, * dear Julia and dearest
Mrs. Rushworth; ' they found me at home yesterday, and we
were glad to see each other again. We seemed very glad to
see each other, and I do really think we were a little. We
had a vast deal to say. Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth
looked when your name was mentioned? I did not use to
think her wanting in self-possession, but she had not quite
enough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole
Julia was in the best looks of the two, at least after you were
spoken of. There was no recovering the complexion from
the moment that I spoke of * Fanny,' and spoke of her as a
sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks will
come; we have cards for her first party on the 28th. Then
she will be in beauty, for she will open one of the best houses
in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it was
Lady Lascelle's, and prefer it to almost any I know in London,
and certainly she will then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that
she has got her pennyworth for her penny. Henry could not .
have afforded her such a house. I hope she will recollect it, |
and be satisfied, as well as she may, with moving the queen of
a palace, though the king may appear best in the background ;
and as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never force yoiw j
name upon her again. She will grow sober by degrees. )
From all that I hear and guess. Baron Wildenheim's attentions
to Julia continue, but I do not know that he has any serious
encouragement. She ought to do better. A poor honour-

3IA3iSFIELD PA'f^K

able is no catch, and I cannot imagine any liking in the case,
for, take away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing.
What a difference a vowel makes! If his rents were but
equal to his rants! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly;
detained, perchance, by parish duties. There may be some
old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am un-
willing to fancy myself neglected for a young one. Adieu !
my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London:
write me a pretty one in reply to gladden Henry's eyes, when
he comes back, and send me an account of all the dashing
young captains whom you disdain for his sake."

There was great food for meditation in this letter, and
chiefly for unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the
uneasiness it supplied, it connected her with the absent, it
told her of people and things about whom she had never felt
so much curiosity as now, and she would have been glad to
have been sure of such a letter every week. Her corre-
spondence with her aunt Bertram was her only concern of
higher interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make
amends for deficiencies at home, there were none within the
circle of her father's and mother's acquaintance to afford her
the smallest satisfaction: she saw nobody in whose favour
she could wish to overcome her own shyness and reserve.
The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert,
everybody underbred; and she gave as little contentment
as she received from introductions either to old or new
acquaintance. The young ladies who approached her at
first with some respect, in consideration of her coming from a
baronet's family, were soon offended by what they termed
''airs"; for, as she neither played on the pianoforte, nor
wore fine pelisses, they could, on farther observation, admit
no right of superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for the
evils of home, the first which her judgment could entirely
approve, and which gave any promise of durability, was in
I i better knowledge of Susan, and a hope of being of service to
[ler. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to herself, but
the determined character of her general manners had
istonished and alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight
before she began to understand a disposition so totally

I

330 t!MJKSFIELD PAT{K

different from her own. Susan saw that much was wrong
at home, and wanted to set it right. That a girl of fourteen,
acting only on her own unassisted reason, should err in the
method of reform, was not wonderful; and Fanny soon
became more disposed to admire the natural light of the
mind which could so early distinguish justly, than to censure
severely the faults of conduct to which it led. Susan was
only acting on the same truths, and pursuing the same system,
which her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more
supine and yielding temper would have shrunk from assert-
ing. Susan tried to be useful, where she could only have
gone away and cried; and that Susan was useful she could
perceive ; that things, bad as they were, would have been worse
but for such interposition, and that both her mother and
Betsey were restrained from some excesses of very offensive
indulgence and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point
of reason the advantage, and never was there any maternal
tenderness to buy her off. The blind fondness which was
for ever producing evil around her she had never known.
There was no gratitude for affection past or present to make
her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed
Susan before her sister as an object of mingled compassion
and respect. That her manner was wrong, however, at
times very wrong, her measures often ill-chosen and ill-
timed, and her looks and language very often indefensible,
Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they
might be rectified. Susan, she found, looked up to her and
wished for her good opinion; and new as anything like an
office of authority was to Fanny, new as it was to imagine
herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did
resolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to
exercise for her advantage the juster notions of what was
due to everybody, and what would be wisest for herself,
which her own more favoured education had fixed in
her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it,
originated in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many
hesitations of dehcacy, she at last worked herself up to. It
had very early occurred to her that a small sum of money

might, perhaps, restore peace for ever on the sore subject of
the silver knife, canvassed as it now was continually, and the
riches which she was in possession of herself, her uncle having
given her £io at parting, made her as able as she was willing
to be generous. But she was so wholly unused to confer
favours, except on the very poor, so unpractised in removing
evils, or bestowing kindnesses among her equals, and so
fearful of appearing to elevate herself as a great lady at home,
that it took some time to determine that it would not be
unbecoming in her to make such a present. It was made,
however, at last; a silver knife was bought for Betsey, and
accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every
advantage over the other that could be desired; Susan was
established in the full possession of her own, Betsey hand-
somely declaring that now she had got one so much prettier
herself, she should never want that again; and no reproach
seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother, which
Fanny had almost feared to be impossible. The deed
thoroughly answered; a source of domestic altercation was
entirely done away, and it was the means of opening Susan's
heart to her, and giving her something more to love and be
interested in. Susan showed that she had delicacy : pleased
as she was to be mistress of property which she had been
struggling for at least two years, she yet feared that her
sister's judgment had been against her, and that a reproof
was designed her for having so struggled as to make the
purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the house.

Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears,
blamed herself for having contended so warmly; and from
that hour Fanny, understanding the worth of her disposition,
and perceiving how fully she was inclined to seek her good
opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel again the
blessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being
useful to a mind so much in need of help, and so much deserv-
ing it. She gave advice, advice too sound to be resisted by
a good understanding, and given so mildly and considerately
as not to irritate an imperfect temper, and she had the
happiness of observing its good effects not unfrequently.
More was not expected by one who, while seeing all the
obligation and expediency of submission and forbearance,
saw also with sympathetic acuteness of feeling all that must

332 3iA0^FIELD PA%K

be hourly grating to a girl like Susan. Her greatest wonder
on the subject soon became — not that Susan should have
been provoked into disrespect and impatience against her
better knowledge — but that so much better knowledge, so
many good notions should have been hers at all; and that,
brought up in the midst of negligence and error, she should
have formed such proper opinions of what ought to be; she,
who had had no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or
fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a material
advantage to each. By sitting together upstairs, they
avoided a great deal of the disturbance of the house ; Fanny
had peace, and Susan learned to think it no misfortune to be
quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but thai was a
privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less
because reminded by it of the East room. It was the only
point of resemblance. In space, light, furniture, and
prospect, there was nothing alike in the two apartments ; and
she often heaved a sigh at the remembrance of all her books
and boxes, and various comforts there. By degrees the girls
came to spend the chief of the morning upstairs, at first only
in working and talking, but after a few days, the remem-
brance of the said books grew so potent and stimulative, that
Fanny found it impossible not to try for books again. There
were none in her father's house ; but wealth is luxurious and
daring, and some of hers found its way to a circulating
library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being anything
in propria persona^ amazed at her own doing in every way,
to be a renter, a chuser of books! And to be having any
one's improvement in view in her choice! But so it was.
Susan had read nothing, and Fanny longed to give her a
share in her own first pleasure, and inspire a taste for the
biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some of
the recollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her
mind if her fingers only were busy; and especially at this
time, hoped it might be useful in diverting her thoughts
from pursuing Edmund to London, whither, on the authority
of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was gone. She had no
doubt of what would ensue. The promised notification was
hanging over her head. The postman's knock within the

3ij:K§field pa%k 333

neighbourhood was beginning to bring its daily terrors^ and
if reading could banish the idea for even half an hour, it was
something gained.

CH^PTEI^XLI

A WEEK was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town,
and Fanny had heard nothing of him. There were three
different conclusions to be drawn from his silence, between
which her mind was in fluctuation; each of them at times
being held the most probable. Either his going had been
again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of
seeing Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-
writing !

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been
nearly four weeks from Mansfield, a point which she never
failed to think over and calculate every day, as she and
Susan were preparing to remove, as usual, upstairs, they
were stopt by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt they
could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the
door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.
! It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny
was just turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into
the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called
upon ; and she found that she had been able to name him to
her mother, and recal her remembrance of the name, as that
of William's friend," though she could not previously have
believed herself capable of uttering a syllable at such a
moment. The consciousness of his being known there only
as William's friend was some support. Having introduced
him, however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred
of what this visit might lead to were overpowering, and she
fancied herself on the point of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had
at first approached her with as animated a countenance as
ever, was wisely and kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving
her time to recover, while he devoted himself entirely to her
mother, addressing her, and attending to her with the utmost

334 3\4A3^FIELD PA1{K

politeness and propriety, at the same time with a degree of
friendliness, of interest, at least, which was making his
manner perfect.

Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by
the sight of such a friend to her son, and regulated by the
wish of appearing to advantage before him, she was over-
flowing with gratitude, artless, maternal gratitude, which
could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out, which she
regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to
feel that she could not regret it; for to her many other sources
of uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home
in which he found her. She might scold herself for the weak-
ness, but there was no scolding it away. She was ashamed,
and she would have been yet more ashamed of her father
than of all the rest.

They talked of William; a subject on which Mrs. Price
could never tire; and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his com-
mendation as even her heart could wish. She felt that she
had never seen so agreeable a man in her life ; and was only
astonished to find, tiiat so great and so agreeable as he was,
he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to
the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the
intention of going over to the island, nor of seeing the dock-
yard. Nothing of all that she had been used to think of as
the proof of importance, or the employment of wealth, had
brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the
night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the
Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his
acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of that kind
in coming.

By the time he had given all this information^ it was not
unreasonable to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and
spoken to; and she was tolerably able to bear his eye, and
hear that he had spent half an hour with his sister the even-
ing before his leaving London; that she had sent her best
and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he
thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour,
having spent scarcely tv/enty-four hours in London, after his
return from Norfolk, before he set off again ; that her cousin
Edmund was in town, had been in town, he understood, a
few days ; that he had not seen him himself, but that he was

MAdi^FIELD PA%K 335

well, had left them all well at Mansfield^ and was to dine, as
yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned cir-
cumstance; nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be
at any certainty; and the words, " then by this time it is all
settled," passed internally, without more evidence of emotion
than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in
which her interest was most apparent, Crawford began to
hint at the expediency of an early walk. " It was a lovely
morning, and at that season of the year a fine morning so
often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody not to delay
their exercise; " and such hints producing nothing, he soon
proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and
her daughters, to take their walk without loss of time. Now
they came to an understanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared,
scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday; she
owned she could seldom, with her large family, find time for
a walk. Would she not, then, persuade her daughters to
take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure
of attending them.^ " Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and
very complying. " Her daughters were very much confined;
Portsmouth was a sad place; they did not often get out; and
she knew they had some errands in the town, v/hich they
would be very glad to do.'' And the consequence was, that
Fanny, strange as it was, strange, awkward, and distressing,
found herself and Susan, within ten minutes^ walking towards
the High Street, with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion ; for
they were hardly m the High Street, before they met her
father, whose appearance was not the better from its being
Saturday. He stopt; and, ungentlemanlike as he looked,
Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr. Crawford. She
could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford
must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted alto-
gether. He must soon give her up, and cease to have the
smallest inclination for the match ; and yet, though she had
been so much wanting his affection to be cured, this was a
sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the complaint;
and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United
Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune

336 mAOiSFIELD FA1{K

of being sought by a clever^ agreeable man, than have him
driven away by the vulgarity of her nearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-
in-law with any idea of taking him for a model in dress ; but
(as Fanny instantly, and to her great relief, discerned) her
father was a very different man, a very different Mr. Price in
his behaviour to this most highly respected stranger, from
what he was in his own family at home. His manners now,
though not polished, were more than passable; they were
grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of an
attached father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very
well in the open air, and there was not a single oath to be
heard. Such was his instinctive compliment to the good
manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it
mighty Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an
offer of Mr. Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dock-yard,
which Mr. Crawford, desirous of accepting as a favour what
was intended as such, though he had seen the dock-yard
again and again, and hoping to be so much the longer with
Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if the
Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was
somehow or other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted
upon, that they were not at all afraid, to the dock-yard they
were all to go; and but for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would
have turned thither directly, without the smallest considera-
tion for his daughters' errands in the High Street. He took
care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops
they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them
long, for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or
be waited for, that before the gentlemen, as they stood at
the door, could do more than begin upon the last naval
regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now in
commission, their companions were ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dock-yard at once,
and the walk would have been conducted (according to Mr.
Crawford's opinion) in a singular manner, had Mr. Price been
allowed the entire regulation of it, as the two girls, he found,
would have been left to follow, and keep up with them or
not, as they could, while they walked on together at their
own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improve-

mJOiSflELD PAT^C 337

mert occasionally, though by no means to the extent he
wishd ; he absolutely would not walk away from them ; and
at an} crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling
out/* Come, girls; come. Fan; come, Sue, take care of your-
selves; keep a sharp look out!" he would give them his
particuar attendance.

Once fairly in the dock-yard, he began to reckon upon
some haj^py intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon
joined b) a brother lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to
take his caily survey of how things went on, and who must
prove a far more worthy companion than himself ; and after
a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied going about
together, aid discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, whle the young people sat down upon some timbers
in the yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks
wiiich they 231 went to look at. Fanny was most conveni-
ently in want of rest. Crawford could not have wished her
more fatigued or more ready to sit down ; but he could have
wished her sisttr away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age
was the very wo^st third in the world: totally different from
Lady Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no intro-
ducing the main point before her. He must content himself
with being only geierally agreeable, and letting Susan have
her share of entertiinment, with the indulgence, now and
then, of a look or hii^t for the better informed and conscious
Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of : there
he had been some time, and everything there was rising in
importance from his present schemes. Such a man could
come from no place, no society, without importing som.ething
to amuse; his journeys a^d his acquaintance were all of use,
and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For
Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental agree-
ableness of the parties he had been in. For her approbation,
the particular reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at this
unusual time of year, was given. It had been real business,
relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a
large and (he believed) industrious family was at stake. He
had suspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of mean-
ing to bias him against the deserving ; and he had determined
to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits of the
case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had

338 SHADiSFIELD PA%K

foreseen, had been useful to more than his first plan had
comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself apon
it, and to feel, that in performing a duty, he had secured
agreeable recollections for his own mind. He had introduced
himself to some tenants, whom he had never seen before ; he
had begun making acquaintance with cottages whoje very
existence, though on his own estate, had been hithfrto un-
known to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny.
It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; her3 he had
been acting as he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor
and the oppressed! Nothing could be more gratefjl to her;
and she was on the point of giving him an approving look
when it was all frightened off, by his adding a something too
pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a
guide in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham; a
somebody that would make Everingham and al about it a
dearer object than it had ever been yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things.
She was wilHng to allow he might have more good qualities
than she had been wont to suppose. She began to feel the
possibility of his turning out well at last; but he was and
must ever be completely unsuited to her, ind ought not to
think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham,
and that it would be as well to talk of iomething else, and
turned to Mansfield. He could not have chosen better; that
was a topic to bring back her attention and her looks almost
instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or to
speak of Mansfield. Now so long dvided from everybody
who knew the place, she felt it quice the voice of a friend
when he mentioned it, and led the wy to her fond exclama-
tions in praise of its beauties and canforts, and by his honour-
able tribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own
heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her uncle as
all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the
sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said
so; he looked forward with the hope of spending much, very
much, of his time there; a/ways there, or in the neighbour-
hood. He particularly built upon a very happy summer and
autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so; he

depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely sup^
to tke last. As animated^ as diversified, as social^ but witi*
circumstances of superiority undescribable.

" Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey/' he continued,
" what a society will be comprised in those houses ! And at
Michadmas, perhaps, a fourth may be added: some small
hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so dear; for as to
any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objec-
tions: too fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan/'

Fanny was doubly silenced here ; though when the moment
was passed, could regret that she had not forced herself into
the acknowledged comprehension of one half of his meaning,
and encouraged him to say something more of his sister and
Edmund. It was a subject which she must learn to speak
of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be quite
unpardonable.

tVhen Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they
wished, or had time for, the others were ready to return;
and in the course of their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived
a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that his only business
in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down for a
couple of days on her account and hers only, and because he
could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry,
really sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two or three
other things which she wished he had not said, she thought
him altogether improved since she had seen him; he was
much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's
feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never
seen him so agreeable — so near being agreeable ; his behaviour
to her father could not offend, and there was something
particularly kind and proper in the notice he took of Susan.
He was decidedly improved. She wished the next day over,
she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not so
very bad as she would have expected : the pleasure of talking
of Mansfield was so very great !

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another
pleasure, and one of no trivial kind. Her father asked him
to do them the honour of taking his mutton with them, and
Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror, before he de-
clared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was

3iA:HSFIELD PA%K

-,ctged to dinner already both for that day and the lext;
ne had met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would
not be denied ; he should have the honour^ however, of wait-
ing on them again on the morrow, etc., and so they parted
— Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so horrible
an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party and see
all their deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's
cookery, and Rebecca's waiting, and Betsey's eating at table
without restraint, and pulling everything about as she chose,
were what Fanny herself was not yet enough inured to for
her often to make a tolerable meal. She was nice only from
natural delicacy, but he had been brought up in a school of
luxury and epicurism.

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when
Mr. Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to
join them; he was asked to go with them to the Garrison
chapel, which was exactly what he had intended, and they
all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had
given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every
Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire.
Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this
Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother :a)w
did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister
as she was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the
heart, to think of the contrast between them ; to think that
where nature had made so little difference, circumstances
should have made so much, and that her mother, as hand-
some as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should
have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so com-
fortless, so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a
very creditable and tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price,
coming abroad with a fine family of children, feeling a little
respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she saw

MAS^FIELD PA%K 341

her boys run into danger^ or Rebecca pass by with a flower
in her hat.

In chapel they were obhged to divide, but Mr. Crawford
took care not to be divided from the female branch; and
after chapel he still continued with them, and made one in
the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every
fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly after
morning service and staying till dinner-time. It was her
public place: there she met her acquaintance, heard a little
news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants,
and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to con-
sider the Miss Prices as his peculiar charge ; and before they
had been there long, somehow or other, there was no saying
how, Fanny could not have believed it, but he was walking
between them with an arm of each under his, and she did not
know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her un-
comfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the
day and in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March;
but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright
sun, occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything
looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky; the
effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at
Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues
of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing
against the ramparts with so fine a sound, produced alto-
gether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her
gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which
she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she
would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted
strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it
generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny
was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her
usual regular exercise ; she had lost ground as to health since
her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the
beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like
herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste
leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire

342 mADiSFIELD PA%K

and considering he was not Edmund^ Fanny could not but
allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature,
and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few
tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take
advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the
result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever,
her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She said
she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise;
but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present
residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not
be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being
again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in
seeing her, must be so much greater.

You have been here a month, I think? " said he.

" No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow
since I left Mansfield.''

" You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should
call that a month."

I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening."

" And it is to be a two months' visit, is not it? "

" Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will
not be less."

"And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who
comes for you ? "

" I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from
my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be
convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months'
end."

After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, " I
know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards
you. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to
have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience
of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be
left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle every-
thing for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for
you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrange-
ments which he may have laid down for the next quarter of
a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allow-
ance; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am con-
sidering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to
Susan, " which I think the confinement of Portsmouth

mA^iSFIELD PA%K 343

unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise.
When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree
that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished
from the free air and liberty of the country. If, therefore "
(turning again to Fanny), " you find yourself growing unwell,
and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield,
without waiting for the two months to be ended, that must not
be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at
all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let
my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I
will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield.
You know the ease and the pleasure with which this would
be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion."

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

" I am perfectly serious," he replied, as you perfectly
know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any
tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall not; it shall
not be in your power; for so long only as you positively say,
in every letter to Mary, * I am well,' and I know you cannot
speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be con-
sidered as well."

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed
to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or
even to be certain of what she ought to say. This was
towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the
last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when
he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended
to be waited for elsewhere.

I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining
Fanny after all the others were in the house — " I wish I left
you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you
in town.? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again
soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he
still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of
his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else.
I must come to an understanding with him. I must make
him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of
Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will be
master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with
him before. The mischief such a man does on an estate,
both as to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the

344 mAO^FIELD PA%K

poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into
Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing
as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever
fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not
try to displace me; but it would be simple to be duped by a
man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than
simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow
for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given
half a promise already. Would it not be worse than simple ?
Shall I go? Do you advise it,^

" I advise ! You know very well what is right,''
Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know
what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right.''

" Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in
ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can
be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."

" Is there nothing I can do for you in town.^^ "
Nothing, I am much obliged to you."

" Have you no message for anybody? "

" My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see
my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good
as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him."

" Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his
excuses myself."

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer
detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was
gone. He went to while away the next three hours as he
could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that
a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and
she turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and
could he have suspected how many privations, besides that
of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have
wondered that her looks were not much more affected than
he found them. She was so Httle equal to Rebecca's puddings
and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with
such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-
cleaned knives and forks, that she was very often constrained
to defer her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers
in the evening for biscuits and buns. After being nursed up
at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened at

3^J3iSFIELD PA%K 345

Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas^ had he known all,
might have thought his niece in the most promising way of
being starved^ both mind and body^ into a much juster
value for Mr. Crawford's good company and good fortune^
he would probably have feared to push his experiment
farther, lest she might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though
tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could
not help being low. It was parting with somebody of the
nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to have
him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody ;
it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield ; and she
could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently
with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to
envy as made her hate herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing
around her; a friend or two of her father's, as always hap-
pened if he was not with them, spent the long, long evening
there ; and from six o'clock till half-past nine, there was little
intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The
wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr. Craw-
ford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything
within the current of her thoughts. Not considering in how
different a circle she had been just seeing him, nor how much
might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his
being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than
formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in great?
So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he
now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be
fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in
a suit so distressing to her.^^

CH^PTE^XLIII

It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back to
London, on the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him
at Mr. Price's; and two days afterwards, it was a fact ascer-
tained to Fanny by the following letter from his sister,

346 mA:XSFIELD PA%K

opened and read by her, on another account, with the most
anxious curiosity: —

" I have to inform you^ my dearest Fanny, that Henry
has been down to Portsmouth to see you; that he had a
delightful walk with you to the dock-yard last Saturday, and
one still more to be dwelt on the next day, on the ramparts;
when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet looks
and conversation were altogether in the most delicious
harmony, and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy
even in retrospect. This, as well as I understand, is to be
the substance of my information. He makes me write, but
I do not know what else is to be communicated, except this
said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his
introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister of
yours, a fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the
ramparts, taking her first lesson, I presume, in love. I have
not time for writing much, but it would be out of place if I
had, for this is to be a mere letter of business, penned for the
purpose of conveying necessary information, which could
not be delayed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny,
if I had you here, how I would talk to youl You should
listen to me till you were tired, and advise me till you were
still tired more ; but it is impossible to put a hundredth part
of my great mind on paper, so I will abstain altogether, and
leave you to guess what you like. I have no news for you.
You have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to
plague you with the names of people and parties that fill up
my time. I ought to have sent you an account of your
cousin's first party, but I was lazy, and now it is too long
ago; suffice it, that everything was just as it ought to be, in
a style that any of her connections must have been gratified
to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her the
greatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is made for such a
house, and it would not make me miserable. I go to Lady
Stornaway after Easter; she seems in high spirits, and very
happy. I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured and pleasant
in his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking
as I did — at least, one sees many worse. He will not do by
the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned
hero, what shall I say? If I avoided his name entirely, it

3Ij:K§field pa%k 347

would look suspicious. I will say, then^ that we have seen
him two or three times, and that my friends here are very
much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance. Mrs.
Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in
town who have so good a person, height, and air; and I must
confess, when he dined here the other day, there were none
to compare with him, and we were a party of sixteen.
Luckily there is no distinction of dress now-a-days to tell
tales, but — but — ^but — Yours affectionately.

I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into
my head more than does me good) one very material thing I
had to say from Henry and myself — I mean about our taking
you back into Northamptonshire. My dear little creature,
do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks. Those
vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor
aunt always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which
the Admiral of course never believed, but I know it was so.
I am at your service and Henry's, at an hour's notice. I
should like the scheme, and we would make a little circuit,
and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps you
would not mind passing through London, and seeing the
inside of St. George's, Hanover Square. Only keep your
cousin Edmund from me at such a time : I should not like to
be tempted. What a long letter! one word more. Henry,
I find, has some idea of going into Norfolk again upon some
business that you approve ; but this cannot possibly be per-
mitted before the middle of next week; that is, he cannot
anyhow be spared till after the 14th, for we have a party
that evening. The value of a man like Henry, on such an
occasion, is what you can have no conception of; so you
must take it upon my word to be inestimable. He will see
the Rushworths, which I own I am not sorry for — having a
little curiosity, and so I think has he — though he will not
acknowledge it."

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read
deliberately, to supply matter for much reflection, and to
leave everything in greater suspense than ever. The only
certainty to be drawn from it was, that nothing decisive had
yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How Miss

348 3iA0<^FIELD PA'I^K

Crawford really felt^ how she meant to act, or might act
without or against her meaning; whether his importance to
her were quite what it had been before the last separation ;
whether, if lessened, it were likely to lessen more, or to
recover itself, were subjects for endless conjecture, and to be
thought of on that day and many days to come, without pro-
ducing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest
was that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and
staggered by a return to London habits, would yet prove
herself in the end too much attached to him to give him up.
She would try to be more ambitious than her heart would
allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would con-
dition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally
accept.

This was Fanny's most frequent [expectation].^ A house
in town, that, she thought, must be impossible. Yet there
was no saying what Miss Crawford might not ask. The
prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The woman
who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance !
What an unworthy attachment! To be deriving support
from the commendations of Mrs. Fraser! She who had
known him intimately half a year ! Fanny was ashamed of
her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.
Crawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly.
Whether Mr. Crawford went into Norfolk before or after the
14th was certainly no concern of her's, though, everything
considered, she thought he would go wdthout delay. That
Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a meeting between
him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of conduct,
and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped he would
not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He
acknowledged no such inducement, and his sister ought to
have given him credit for better feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town
after receiving this than she had been before; and for a
few days w^as so unsettled by it altogether, by what had
come, and what might come, that her usual readings and con-
versation with Susan were much suspended. She could not
command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford
remembered her message to her cousin, she thought it very
* " Expectations " in the early editions.

likely, most likely, that he would write to her at all events;
it would be most consistent with his usual kindness ; and till
she got rid of this idea, till it gradually wore off, by no letters
appearing in the course of three or four days more, she was
in a most restless, anxious state.

At length, a something like composure succeeded. Sus-
pense must be submitted to, and must not be allowed to
wear her out, and make her useless. Time did something,
her own exertions something more, and she resumed her
attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without
any of the early delight in books, which had been so strong
in Fanny, with a disposition much less inclined to sedentary
pursuits, or to information for information's sake, she had
so strong a desire of not appearing ignorant, as, with a good
clear understanding, made her a most attentive, profitable,
thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's explana-
tions and remarks were a most important addition to every
essay, or every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of
former times dwelt more on her mind than the pages of
Goldsmith; and she paid her sister the compliment of pre-
ferring her style to that of any printed author. The early
habit of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects
so high as history or morals. Others had their hour; and of
lesser matters, none returned so often, or remained so long
between them, as Mansfield Park, a description of the people,
the manners, the amusements, the ways of Mansfield Park.
Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and well-
appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but in-
dulge herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped
it was not wrong; though, after a time, Susan's very great
admiration of everything said or done in her uncle's house,
and earnest longing to go into Northamptonshire, seemed
almost to blame her for exciting feelings which could not be
gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her
elder sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand
this, she began to feel that when her own release from Ports-
mouth came, her happiness would have a material drawback

350 mAO^SFIELD PAT^i

in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of being
made everything good should be left in such hands^ dis-
tressed her more and more. Were she likely to have a home
to invite her to, what a blessing it would be 1 And had it
been possible for her to return Mr. Crawford's regard, the
probability of his being very far from objecting to such a
measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own
comforts. She thought he was really good-tempered, and
could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort most
pleasantly.

CH^PTE'B^XLIV

Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when
the one letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected,
was put into Fanny's hands. As she opened, and saw its
length, she prepared herself for a minute detail of happiness
and a profusion of love and praise towards the fortunate
creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the
contents : —

'* Mansfield Park.

" My Dear Fanny, — Excuse me that I have not written
before. Crawford told me that you were wishing to hear
from me, but I found it impossible to write from London,
and persuaded myseK that you would understand my silence.
Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have
been wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my
power. I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured state
than when I left it. My hopes are much weaker. You are
probably aware of this already. So very fond of you as Miss
Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough
of her own feelings, to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I
will not be prevented, however, from making my own com-
munication. Our confidences in you need not clash. I ask
no questions. There is something soothing in the idea that
we have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy differ-
ences of opinion may exist between us, we are united in our
love of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things

mA^FIELD PA%K. 351

now are, and what are my present plans, if plans I can be said
to have. I have been returned since Saturday. I was three
weeks in London, and saw her (for London) very often. I
had every attention from the Frasers that could be reasonably
expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with
me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It
was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency of
meeting. Had she been different when I did see her, I should
have made no complaint, but from the very first she was
altered; my first reception was so unlike what I had hoped,
that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.
I need not particularise. You know the weak side of her
character, and may imagine the sentiments and expressions
which were torturing me. She was in high spirits, and
surrounded by those who were giving all the support of their
own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like Mrs.
Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married
entirely from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in
her marriage, places her disappointment not to faults of
judgment, or temper, or disproportion of age, but to her
being, after all, less affluent than many of her acquaintance,
especially than her sister. Lady Stornaway, and is the deter-
mined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,
provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I look
upon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest mis-
fortune of her life and mine. They have been leading her
astray for years. Could she be detached from them! — ^and
sometimes I do not despair of it, for the affection appears to
me principally on their side. They are very fond of her ; but
I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I
think of her great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole
of her judicious, upright conduct as a sister, she appears a
very different creature, capable of everything noble, and I
am ready to blame myseK for a too harsh construction of a
playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is the
only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a
wife. If I did not believe that she had some regard for me,
of course I should not say this, but I do believe it. I am
convinced that she is not without a decided preference. I
have no jealousy of any individual. It is the influence of the
fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of. It is the

352 OdADiSFIELD PAT{K

habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher tha
her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our
incomes united could authorise. There is comfort, however,
even here. I could better bear to lose her, because not rich
enough, than because of my profession. That would only
prove her affection not equal to sacrifices, which, in fact, I am
scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused, ihatj I think^
will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are not so
strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as they
arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes con-
tradictory, but it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind.
Having once begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell you all I feel.
I cannot give her up. Connected as we already are, and, I
hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford would be to give up
the society of some of those most dear to me; to banish
myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any
other distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of
Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford
and of Fanny. Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I
hope I should know how to bear it, and how to endeavour to
weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course of a few
years — but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I must
bear it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This
is the truth. The only question is how ? What may be the
likeliest means? I have sometimes thought of going to
London again after Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing
nothing till she returns to Mansfield. Even now, she speaks
with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June is at a
great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have
nearly determined on explaining myself by letter. To be at
an early certainty is a material object. My present state is
miserably irksome. Considering everything, I think a letter
will be decidedly the best method of explanation. I shall be
able to write much that I could not say, and shall be giving
her time for reflection before she resolves on her answer, and
I am less afraid of the result of reflection than of an immedi-
ate hasty impulse ; I think I am. My greatest danger w^ould
lie in her consulting Mrs. Eraser, and I at a distance unable
to help my own cause. A letter exposes to all the evil of
consultation, and where the mind is anything short of perfect
decision, an adviser may, in an unlucky mom.ent, lead it to do

mAS^SFIELD PJ%K 353

what it may afterwards regret. I must think this matter
over a little. This long letter^ full of my own concerns alone,
will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny. The
last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party. I am
more and more satisfied with all that I see and hear of him.
There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows
his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions : an inestimable
quality. I could not see him and m.y eldest sister in the same
room, without recollecting what you once told me, and I
acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was
marked coolness on her side. They scarcely spoke. I saw
him draw back surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rush-
worth should resent any former supposed slight to Miss
Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion of Maria's
degree of comfort as a wife. There is no appearance of
unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together. I
dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have been there
oftener, but it is mortifying to be with Rushworth as a
brother. Julia seems to enjoy London exceedingly. I had
little enjoyment there, but have less here. We are not a
lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more
than I can express. My mother desires her best love, and
hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost every
hour, and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she is
likely to be without you. My father means to fetch you
himself, but it will not be till after Easter, when he has
business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope,
but this must not be a yearly visit. I want you at home,
that I may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey. I
have little heart for extensive improvements till I know
that it will ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly
write. It is quite settled that the Grants go to Bath; they
leave Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not
comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but your aunt
seems to feel out of luck that such an article of Mansfield
news should fall to my pen instead of hers. — Yours ever,
my dearest Fanny."

" I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter
again," was Fanny's secret declaration as she finished this.
** What do they bring but disappointment and sorrow? Not

M

354 3\dA3iSFIELD PA%K

till after Easter! How shall I bear it? And my poor aunt
talking of me every hour!

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as
she could, but she was within half a minute of starting the
idea, that Sir Thomas was quite unkind, both to her aunt
and to herself. As for the main subject of the letter, there
was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was almost
vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. " There
is no good in this delay,'' said she. Why is not it settled?
He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes; nothing
can, after having had truths before him so long in vain. He
will marry her, and be poor and miserable. God grant that
her influence do not make him cease to be respectable!"
She looked over the letter again. " * So very fond of me ! '
'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her
brother. * Her friends leading her astray for years ! ' She
is quite as likely to have led them astray. They have all,
perhaps, been corrupting one another; but if they are so
much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less likely
to have been hurt, except by their flattery. * The only
woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.'
I firmly believe it. It is an attachment to govern his whole
life. Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her for
ever. * The loss of Mary I must consider as comprehending
the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not
know me. The families would never be connected if you did
not connect them! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once.
Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn
yourself."

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resent-
ment to be long guiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon
more softened and sorrowful. His warm regard, his kind
expressions, his confidential treatment, touched her strongly.
He was only too good to everybody. It was a letter, in
short, which she would not but have had for the world, and
which could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having
much to say, which will include a large proportion of the
female world, at least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she
was out of luck in having such a capital piece of Mansfield
news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath, occur at

mASiSFIELD PA%K 355

a time when she could make no advantage of it, and will
admit that it must have been very mortifying to her to see
it fall to the share of her thankless son, and treated as con-
cisely as possible at the end of a long letter, instead of having
it to spread over the largest part of a page of her own. For
though Lady Bertram rather shone in the epistolary line,
having early in her marriage, from the want of other employ-
ment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's being in Parlia-
ment, got into the way of making and keeping correspondents,,
and formed for herself a very creditable, commonplace, am-
plifying style, so that a very little matter was enough for
her: she could not do entirely without any; she must have
something to write about, even to her niece; and being so
soon to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms
and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her
to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she could
put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her.
Lady Bertram's hour of good luck came. Within a few days
from the receipt of Edmund's letter, Fanny had one from
her aunt, beginning thus: —

" My dear Fanny, — I take up my pen to communicate
some very alarming intelligence, which I make no doubt
will give you much concern."

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the
pen to acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants'
intended journey, for the present intelligence was of a nature
to promise occupation for the pen for many days to come,
being no less than the dangerous illness of her eldest son, of
which they had received notice by express a few hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to ^
Newmarket, where a neglected fall and a good deal of drink-
ing had brought on a fever; and when the party broke up,
being unable to move, had been left by himself at the house
of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness and
solitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of
being soon well enough to follow his friends, as he had then
hoped, his disorder increased considerably, and it was not
long before he thought so ill of himself, as to be as ready as .
his physician to have a letter dispatched to Mansfield.

356 {ma:ksfield PA'KK

" This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose/' ob-
served her ladyship, after giving the substance of it, " has
agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves
from being greatly alarmed and apprehensive for the poor
invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may be very critical;
and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother imme-
diately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not
leave me on this distressing occasion, as it would be too trying
for me. We shall greatly miss Edmund in our small circle,
but I trust and hope he will find the poor invalid in a less
alarming state than might be apprehended, and that he will
be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas
proposes should be done, and thinks best on every account,
and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to bear
the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I
have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under
these distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon."

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably
more warm and genuine than her aunt's style of writing.
She felt truly for them all. Tom dangerously ill, Edmund
gone to attend him, and the sadly small party remaining at
Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care, or almost
every other. She could just find selfishness enough to
wonder whether Edmund had written to Miss Crawford before
this summons came, but no sentiment dwelt long with her
that was not purely affectionate and disinterestedly anxious.
Her aunt did not neglect her; she wrote again and again;
they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund, and
these accounts were as regularly transmitted t6 Fanny, in
the same diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes,
and fears, all following and producing each other at hap-
hazard. It was a sort of playing at being frightened. The
sufferings which Lady Bertram did not see had little power
over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably about agita-
tion, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually
conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his
altered appearance. Then a letter which she had been pre-
viously preparing for Fanny was finished in a different style,
in the language of real feeling and alarm ; then she wrote as
.she might have spoken. " He is just come, my dear Fanny,

mAO^FIELD PA%¥. 357

and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that
Idonotknowwhattodo. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor
Tom ! I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened,
and so is Sir Thomas ; and how glad I should be if you were
here to comfort me. But Sir Thomas hopes he will be better
to-morrow, and says we must consider his journey."

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom
was not soon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed
to Mansfield, and experience those comforts of home and
family which had been little thought of in uninterrupted
health, had probably induced his being conveyed thither too
early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week he was
in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very
seriously frightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors
to her niece, who might now be said to live upon letters, and
pass all her time between suffering from that of to-day and
looking forward to to-morrow's. Without any particular
affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness of heart made
her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of her
principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she consi-
dered how little useful, how little self-denying his life had
(apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on
more common occasions. Susan was always ready to hear
and to sympathise. Nobody else could be interested in so
remote an evil as illness, in a family above an hundred miles
off ; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two, if
she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and now and
then the quiet observation of — " My poor sister Bertram
must be in a great deal of trouble."

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of
blood were little more than nothing. An attachment,
originally as tranquil as their tempers, was now become
a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for Lady
Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price.
Three or four Prices might have been swept away, any or
all except Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram would
have thought little about it; or perhaps might have caught
from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very happy
thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price to
have them so well provided for.

358 r!MJO^FIELD PAT{K

CH^PTET^XLV

At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's
immediate danger was over, and he was so far pronounced
:safe as to make his mother perfectly easy; for being now
used to the sight of him in his suffering, helpless state, and
hearing only the best, and never thinking beyond what she
heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a
hint. Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world
for a little medical imposition. The fever was subdued;
the fever had been his complaint; of course he would soon
be well again. Lady Bertram could think nothing less, and
Fanny shared her aunt's security, till she received a few
lines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a clearer
idea of his brother's situation, and acquaint her with the
apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed from
the physician with respect to some strong hectic symptoms,
which seemed to seize the frame on the departure of the fever.
They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be
harassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove
unfounded ; but there was no reason why Fanny should not
know the truth. They were apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund showed her the patient
and the sick room in a juster and stronger light than all Lady
Bertram's sheets of paper could do. There was hardly any
one in the house who might not have described, from personal
observation, better than herself ; not one who was not more
useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide in
quietly and look at him ; but when able to talk or be talked
to, or read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred.
His aunt worried him by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew
not how to bring down his conversation or his voice to the
level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in all.
Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find
that her estimation of him was higher than ever when he
appeared as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering
brother. There wsis not only the debility of recent illness to
assist; there was also, as she now learnt, nerves much

MA^iSFIELD PA%K 359

affected; spirits much depressed to calm and raise, and her
own imagination added that there must be a mind to be
properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more
inclined to hope than fear for her cousin, except when she
thought of Miss Crawford ; but Miss Crawford gave her the
idea of being the child of good luck, and to her selfishness and
vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only
son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not
forgotten. Edmund's letter had this postscript. " On the
subject of my last, I had actually begun a letter when called
away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed my mind,
and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is
better, I shall go."

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with
scarcely any change till Easter. A line occasionally added
by Edmund to his mother's letter was enough for Fanny's
information. Tom's amendment was alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most
sorrowfully considered, on first learning that she had no
chance of leaving Portsmouth till after it. It came, and she
had yet heard nothing of her return, nothing even of the
going to London, which was to precede her return. Her
aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no notice,
no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She
supposed he could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel,
a terrible delay to her. The end of April was coming on; it
would soon be almost three months, instead of two, that she
had been absent from th6m all, and that her days had been
passing in a state of penance, which she loved them too well
to hope they would thoroughly understand ; and who could
say when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her.^

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with
them, were such as to bring a line or two of Cowper's
Tirocinium for ever before her. " With what intense desire
she wants her home," was continually on her tongue, as the
truest description of a yearning which she could not suppose
any school-boy's bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved
to call it her home, had been fond of saying that she was

360 MAS^FIELD PA'KK

going home; the word had been very dear to her^ and so it
still was, but it must be applied to Mansfield. That was
now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was
home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of
her secret meditations, and nothing was more consolatory
to her than to find her aunt using the same language: I
cannot but say I much regret your being from home at this
distressing time, so very trying to my spirits. — I trust and
hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home
so long again," were most delightful sentences to her. Still,
however, it was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents
made her careful not to betray such a preference of her nucleus
house. It was always : " When I go back into Northampton-
shire, or when I return to Mansfield, I shall do so and so.''
For a great while it was so, but at last the longing grew
stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking
of what she should do when she went home, before she was
aware. She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully
towards her father and mother. She need not have been un-
easy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even of hearing
her. They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mans-
field. She was as welcome to wish herself there, as to be
there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring.
She had not known before what pleasures she had to lose in
passing March and April in a town. She had not known
before how much the beginnings and progress of vegetation
had delighted her* What animation, both of body and mind,
she had derived from watching the advance of that season
which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and
seeing its increasing beauties from the earliest flowers in the
warmest divisions of her aunt's garden, to the opening of
leaves of her uncle's plantations and the glory of his woods.
To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them
because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, to have
confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for Uberty,
freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but
even these incitements to regret were feeble, compared with
what arose from the conviction of being missed by her best
friends, and the longing to be useful to those who were
wanting her!

mAOiSFIELD PA%K. 361

Could she have been at home, she might have been of
service to every creature in the house. She felt that she
must have been of use to all. To all she must have saved
some trouble of head or hand ; and were it only in supporting
the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from the evil of
solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious com-
panion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance
her own importance, her being there would have been a
general good. She loved to fancy how she could have read
to her aunt, how she could have talked to her, and tried at
once to make her feel the blessing of what was, and prepare
her mind for what might be; and how many walks up and
down stairs she might have saved her, and how many
messages she might have carried.

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with
remaining in London at such a time, through an illness which
had now, under different degrees of danger, lasted several
weeks. They might return to Mansfield when they chose;
travelling could be no difficulty to them, and she could not
comprehend how both could still keep away. If Mrs.
Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia
was certainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It
appeared from one of her aunt's letters that Julia had offered
to return if wanted, but this was all. It was evident that she
would rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very
much at war with all respectable attachments. She saw the
proof of it in Miss Crawford, as well as in her cousins; her
attachment to Edmund had been respectable, the most
respectable part of her character; her friendship for herself
had at least been blameless. Where was either sentiment
now? It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from
her, that she had some reason to think lightly of the friend-
ship which had been so dwelt on. It was weeks since she had
heard anything of Miss Crawford or of her other connections
in town, except through Mansfield, and she was beginning to
suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford
had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might
never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the
following letter was received to revive old and create some
new sensations: —

362 314A:HSFIELD pa%k

" Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my
long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me directly.
This is my modest request and expectation, for you are so
good, that I depend upon being treated better than I deserve,
and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I want to
know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no
doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute
not to feel for the distress they are in ; and from what I hear,
poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I
thought little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as
the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss
himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for
those who had to nurse him ; but now it is confidently asserted
that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most
alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of
it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part,
that discerning part, and therefore intreat you to let me know
how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how
rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but
the report is so prevalent, that I confess I cannot help trem-
bling. To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower
of his days, is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel
it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject.
Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but upon
my honour I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor
young man! If he is to die, there will be two poor young
men less in the world; and with a fearless face and bold
voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence
could fall into no hands more deserving of them. It was a
foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days
may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many
stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name.
With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be over-
looked. Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety,
and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you
have it from the fountain-head. And now do not trouble
yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own.
Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic
and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether * Sir
Edmund ' would not do more good with all the Bertram
property than any other possible * Sir.' Had the Grants

MA^K^FIELD PA%K. 363

been at home I would not have troubled you^ but you are
now the only one I can apply to for the truths his sisters
not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the
Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham (as to be sure you
know), and is not yet returned ; and Julia is with the cousins
who live near Bedford Square, but I [forget] ^ their name
and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I
should still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have
all along been so unwilling to have their own amusements
cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs.
R.'s Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt
they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers are pleasant
people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but
enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going duti-
fully down to Bath, to fetch his mother ; but how will she
and the dowager agree in one house } Henry is not at hand,
so I have nothing to say from him. Do not you think
Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for
this illness ? — Yours ever, Mary.

" I had actually began folding my letter when Henry
walked in, but he brings no intelligence to prevent my send-
ing it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended ; he saw her
this morning; she returns to Wimpole Street to-day; the
old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy v/ith
any queer fancies, because he has been spending a few days
at Richmond. He does it every spring. Be assured he
cares for nobody but you. At this very moment he is wild
to see you, and occupied only in contriving the means for
doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In
proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Ports-
mouth, about our conveying you home, and I join him in it
with all my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to
come. It will do us all good. He and I can go to the
Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our friends at
Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them
all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite
use to them ; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be
so wanted there, that you cannot in conscience (conscientious
as you are) keep away, when you have the means of return-
ing. I have not time or patience to give half Henry's
* " Forgot " in the early editions.

364 JkTJD^FIELD PA%K

messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one
is unalterable affection.''

Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her
extreme reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin
Edmund together, would have made her (as she felt) incap-
able of judging impartially whether the concluding offer might
be accepted or not. To herself, individually, it was most
tempting. To be finding herself perhaps within three days
transported to Mansfield, was an image of the greatest
felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be
owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct,
at the present moment, she saw so much to condemn; the
sister's feelings, the brother's conduct, her cold-hearted ambi-
tion, his thoughtless vanity. To have him still the acquaint-
ance, the flirt, perhaps, of Mrs. Rushworth! She was
mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily, how-
ever, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite
inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no
occasion to determine whether she ought to keep Edmund
and Mary asunder or not. She had a rule to apply to, which
settled everything. Her awx of her uncle, and her dread of
taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to her
what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the pro-
posal. If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to
offer an early return was a presumption which hardly any-
thing would have seemed to justify. She thanked Miss
Crawford, but gave a decided negative. " Her uncle, she
understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness j
had continued so many weeks without her being thought at
all necessary, she must suppose her return would be unwel-
come at present, and that she should be felt an incumbrance."

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was
exactly according to her own belief of it, and such as she sup-
posed would convey to the sanguine mind of her correspon-
dent the hope of everything she was wishing for. Edmund
would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed, under
certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was
all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to
congratulate himself upon. She had only learnt to think
nothing of consequence but money.

3\/IA3<SFIELD PJ%K 365

CHJtFTE%^XLVI

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a
real disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her
knowledge of Miss Crawford's temper, of being urged again;
and though no second letter arrived for the space of a week,
she had still the same feeling when it did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing
little writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a
letter of haste and business. Its object was unquestionable ; '
and two moments were enough to start the probability of its
being merely to give her notice that they should be in Ports-
mouth that very day, and to throw her into all the agitation
of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two
moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can
disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the
possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford's having applied to her
uncle and obtained his permission, was giving her ease. This
was the letter: —

" A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached
me, and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the
least credit to it, should it spread into the country. Depend
upon it, there is some mistake, and that a day or two will
clear it up ; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and in spite
of a moment's etourderie, thinks of nobody but you. Say not
a word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing,
till I write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and
nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I
would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and
Julia with them. But why would not you let us come for
you? I wish you may not repent it. — Yours, etc."

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour
had reached her, it was impossible for her to understand
much of this strange letter. She could only perceive that it
must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and only
conjecture that something very imprudent had just occurred
I in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to excite
her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it.

366 ^JD^SFIELD PA%K

Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only
sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report
should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. If the
Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be
inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that
anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least
should make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a know-
ledge of his own disposition, convince him that he was not
capable of being steadily attached to any one woman in the
world, and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing
herself.

It was very strange! She had begun to think he really
loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more
than common; and his sister still said that he cared for
nobody else. Yet there must have been some marked dis-
play of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some
strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort
to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she
heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to
banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not relieve
herself by speaking of it to any human being. Miss Crawford
need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth; she
might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny
was disappointed. She could still think of little else all the
morning; but, when her father came back in the afternoon
with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so far from
expecting any elucidation through such a channel that the
subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her
first evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper,
came across her. No candle was now wanted. The sun was
yet an hour and half above the horizon. She felt that she
had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays
falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made
her still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a
totally different thing in a town and in the country. Here,
its power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, serving
but to bring for^vard stains and dirt that might otherwise

i

mA^KSFIELD FA%K. 367

have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine
in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat^ in a cloud
of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the
walls, marked iDy her father's head, to the table cut and
notched by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never
thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks,
the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the
bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than
even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father
read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged
carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wished
Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his
calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a
particular paragraph: What's the name of your great
cousins in town, Fan?

A moment's recollection enabled her to say, " Rushworth,
sir.''

" And don't they live in Wimpole Street? "
" Yes, sir."

Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all !
There " (holding out the paper to her); " much good may
such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas
may think of such matters; he may be too much of the
courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But,
by G — ! if she belonged to me^ I'd give her the rope's end as
long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and
woman, too, would be the best way of preventing such
things."

Fanny read to herself that it was with infinite concern
the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial
fracas in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beauti-
ful Mrs. R. whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists
of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a
leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's
roof in company with the well-known and captivating
Mr. C, the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it
was not known even to the editor of the newspaper, whither
they were gone."

" It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny, instantly; " it must be
a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other
people."

368 MA^KSFIELD PAI^

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame;
she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for
she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had
been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed
on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could
even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to
herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her
much answer. " It might be all a lie," he acknowledged;
" but so many fine ladies were going to the devil now-a-days
that way, that there was no answering for anybody.''

Indeed, I hope it is not true,'' said Mrs. Price, plaintively;
" it would be so very shocking ! If I have spoken once to
Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least
a dozen times; have not I, Betsey.^ And it would not be
ten minutes' work."

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the con-
viction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the
misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first,
it was a sort of stupefaction ; but every moment was quicken-
ing her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt,
she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false.
Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make
every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it.
Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being hushed,
up, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something
very bad ; and if there was a woman of character in existence,
who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude,
who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it un-
punished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman !
Now she could see her own mistake as to who were gone, or
said to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was
Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before.
There was no possibiHty of rest. The evening passed without
a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed
only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and
from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking,
that there were moments even when her heart revolted from
it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A
woman married only six months ago; a man professing

I

mA3^FIELD PA'R^ 369

himself devoted, even engaged to another; that other her
near relation; the whole family, both families connected as
they were by tie upon tie ; all friends, all intimate together I
It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complica-
tion of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbar-
ism, to be capable of ! yet her judgment told her it was so.
His unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, Marians
decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side,
gave it possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not
injure? Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace
would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford, herself,
Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such
ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to
the simple, indubitable family misery which must envelope
all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and public
exposure. The mother's sufferings, the father's; there she
paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer
pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most
horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense
of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, un-
suspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her
think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason
under such disgrace; and it appeared to her, that, as far as
this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to every
one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant
annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken
her terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no refutation,
public or private. There was no second letter to explain
away the first from Miss Crawford ; there was no intelligence
from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her to hear
again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had,
indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind,
and was reduced to so low and wan and trembling a condi-
tion, as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Price, could have
overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening knock,
and a letter Avas again put into her hands. It bore the
London postmark, and came from Edmund.

" Dear Fanny, — You know our present wretchedness.

May God support you under your share! We have been
here two days^ but there is nothing to be done. They cannot
be traced. You may not have heard of the last blow — Julia's
elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left
London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time
this would have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing ;
yet it is an heavy aggravation. My father is not over-
powered. More cannot be hoped. He is still able to think
and act; and I write^ by his desire, to propose your returning
home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake.
I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this,
and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father
wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for a few months.
Settle it as you like; say what is proper; I am sure you will
feel such an instance of his kindness at such a moment I Do
justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You may
imagine something of my present state. There is no end of
the evil let loose upon us. You will see me early by the
mail. — Yours, etc."

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she
felt such a one as this letter contained. To-morrow! to
leave Portsmouth to-morrow ! She was, she felt she was, in
the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so
many were miserable. The evil which brought such good to
her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of
it. To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a
comfort, and with leave to take Susan, was altogether such a
combination of blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for
a time seemed to distance every pain, and make her incapable
of suitably sharing the distress even of those whose distress
she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her
comparatively but little ; she was amazed and shocked ; but
it could not occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She
was obliged to call herself to think of it, and acknowledge it
to be terrible and grievous, or it was escaping her, in the
midst of all the agitating pressing joyful cares attending this
summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable
employment, for relieving sorrow. Employment, even
melancholy, may dispel melancholy, and her occupations

MAD^^FIELD PA%K 371

were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even the
horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point
of certainty) could affect her as it had done before. She had
not time to be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she
was hoping to be gone ; her father and mother must be spoken
to, Susan prepared, everything got ready. Business followed
business; the day was hardly long enough. The happiness
she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the
black communication which must briefly precede it — the
joyful consent of her father and mother to Susan's going
with her — the general satisfaction with which the going of
both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy of Susan herself, was
all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family.
Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but
how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca
took away all the boxes and spoilt them, was much more in
her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified
in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally
of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing — if
she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much
as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or
the good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and
duly accomplished, and the girls were ready for the morrow.
The advantage of much sleep to prepare them for their
journey was impossible. The cousin who was travelling
towards them could hardly have less than visited their
agitated spirits, one all happiness, the other all varying and
indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The
girls heard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down.
The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledge of
what he must be suffering, brought back all her own first
feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to
sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her
instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with
only these words, just articulate, " My Fanny, my only
sister; my only comfort now! " She could say nothing; nor
for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke

372 ^JS^FIELD PA%K

again, though his voice still faltered, his manner showed the
wish of self-command, and the resolution of avoiding any
farther allusion. " Have you breakfasted? When shall you
be ready? Does Susan go? were questions following each
other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as pos-
sible. When Mansfield was considered, time was precious;
and the state of his own mind made him find relief only in
motion. It was settled that he should order the carriage to
the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for having break-
fasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already
ate, and decHned staying for their meal. He would walk
round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He
was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill ; evidently suffering under violent emo-
tions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it
must be so, but it was terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the
same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the
family, and be a witness — but that he saw nothing — of the
tranquil manner in which the daughters were parted with,
and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the breakfast
table, which by dint of much unusual activity, was quite
and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door.
Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with
her first ; she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had
been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed
the barriers of Portsmouth, and how^ Susan's face wore its
broadest smiles, may be easily conceived. Sitting forw^ards,
however, and screened by her bonnet, those smiles were
unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep
sighs often reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his
heart must have opened in spite of every resolution; but
Susan's presence drove him quite into himself, and his
attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be long
supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and
sometimes catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile,
which comforted her; but the first day's journey passed
without her hearing a word from him on the subjects that

mA3<^FIELD PA%K

were weighing him down. The next morning produced a
little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford^ while
Susan was stationed at a window, in eager observation of the
departure of a large family from the inn, the other two were
standing by the fire; and Edmund, particularly struck by
the alteration in Fanny's looks, and from his ignorance of the
daily evils of her father's house, attributing an undue share
of the change, attributing all to the recent event, took her
hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, No
wonder — you must feel it — you must suffer. How a man
who had once loved, could desert you! But yours — your
regard was new compared with Fanny, think of me I

The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and
brought them, almost knocked up, to Oxford ; but the second
was over at a much earlier hour. They were in the environs
of Mansfield long before the usual dinner-time, and as they
approached the beloved place, the hearts of both sisters sank
a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her aunts
and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to
feel with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her
lately acquired knowledge of what was practised here, was
on the point of being called into action. Visions of good and
ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentilities were before
her ; and she was meditating much upon silver forks, napkins,
and finger glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to
the difference of the country since February; but when they
entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of
the keenest sort. It was three months, full three months,
since her quitting it, and the change was from winter to
summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations
of the freshest green ; and the trees, though not fully clothed,
were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known
to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the
sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment,
however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it.
She looked at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper
gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the view of
cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home
must be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of
what must be enduring there, invested even the house.

374 mA3KSFIELD PA%K

modern^ airy, and well situated as it was, with a melancholy
aspect.

By one of the suffering party within, they were expected
with such impatience as she had never known before. Fanny
had scarcely passed the solemn-looking servants, when Lady
Bertram came from the drawing-room to meet her; came
with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said, " Dear
Fanny ! now I shall be comfortable."

CH^PTE%^XLVU

It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing
themselves most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most
attached to Maria, was really the greatest sufferer. Maria
was her first favourite, the dearest of all; the match had
been her own contriving, as she had been wont with such
pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost
overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent
to everything that passed. The being left with her sister
and nephew, and all the house under her care, had been an
advantage entirely thrown away; she had been unable to
direct or dictate, or even fancy herself useful. When really
touched by affliction, her active powers had been all be-
numbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received^
from her the smallest support or attempt at support. She"
had done no more for them than they had done for each other.
They had been all solitary, helpless, and forlorn alike; and
now the arrival of the others only established her superiority
in wretchedness. Her companions were relieved, but there
was no good for lieY. Edmund was almost as welcome to his
brother as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of
having comfort from either, was but the more irritated by
the sight of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger,
she could have charged as the daemon of the piece. Had
Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.

Susan, too, was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice
her in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a

3\4A3^FIELD PA^ 375

spy, and an intruder, and an indigent niece, and everything
most odious. By her other aunt, Susan was received with
quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her much
time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to
have a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her;
and Susan was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly
aware that nothing but ill humour was to be expected from
aunt Norris ; and was so provided with happiness, so strong
in that best of blessings, an escape from many certain evils,
that she could have stood against a great deal more indiffer-
ence than she met with from the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted
with the house and grounds as she could, and spent her days
very happily in so doing, while those who might otherwise
have attended to her were shut up, or wholly occupied each
with the person quite dependant on them, at this time, for
everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny
devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office
with more than former zeal, and thinking she could never
do enough for one who seemed so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and
lament, was all Lady Bertram's consolation. To be listened
to and borne with, and hear the voice of kindness and sym-
pathy in return, was everything that could be done for her.
To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think
deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all
important points; and she saw therefore, in all its enormity,
what had happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor
required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt and
infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious.
After a time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her
thoughts to other subjects, and revive some interest in the
usual occupations; but whenever Lady Bertram was fixed
on the event, she could see it only in one light, as compre-
hending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be
wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet
transpired. He aunt was no very methodical narrator, but

376 JyU^iSFIELD PA%K

with the help of some letters to and from Sir Thomas^ and
what she already knew herself, and could reasonably combine,
she was soon able to understand quite as much as she wished
of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to
Twickenham, with a family whom she had just grown
intimate with: a family of lively, agreeable manners, and
probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to their house
Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having
been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew.
Mr. Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass
a few days with his mother, and bring her back to town, and
Maria was with these friends without any restraint, without
even Julia ; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street two
or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir
Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were now
disposed to attribute to some view of convenience on Mr.
Yates's account. Very soon after the Rushworths' return to
Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter from an old
and most particular friend in London, who hearing and
witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote
to recommend Sir Thomas's coming to London himself, and
using his influence with his daughter to put an end to the
intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant
remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without
communicating its contents to any creature at Mansfield,
when it was followed by another, sent express from the same
friend, to break to him the almost desperate situation in
which affairs then stood with the young people. Mrs. Rush-
worth had left her husband's house : Mr. Rushworth had been
in great anger and distress to Mm (Mr. Harding) for his advice;
Mr. Harding feared there had been at least very flagrant
indiscretion. The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior,
threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to
quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth's return,
but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by the
influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, that the worst conse-
quences might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the
rest of the family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go

mA3iSFIELD PA%K 377

with him^ and the others had been left in a state of wretched-
ness^ inferior only to what followed the receipt of the next
letters from London. Everything was by that time public
beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother,
had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress,
was not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short
time they had been together, had disagreed; and the bitter-
ness of the elder against her daughter-in-law might perhaps
arise almost as much from the personal disrespect with which
she had herself been treated as from sensibility for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had
she been less obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who
was always guided by the last speaker, by the person who
could get hold of and shut him up, the case would still have
been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear again,
and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's
house, as for a journey, on the very day of her absenting
herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town,
in the hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice,
though all was lost on the side of character.

His present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of.
There was but one of his children who was not at this time
a source of misery to him. Tom's complaints had been
greatly heightened by the shock of his sister's conduct, and
his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even ILady
Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms
were regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elope-
ment, the additional blow which had met him on his arrival
in London, though its force had been deadened at the
moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was.
His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any
circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance;
but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period
chosen for its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most
unfavourable light, and severely aggravated the folly of her
choice. He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner,
and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as more
pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
regard the step she had taken as opening the worst prob-

378 mJO^FIELD PA%K

-abilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such
was his opinion of the set into which she had thrown herself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no com-
fort but in Edmund. Every other child must be racking his
heart. His displeasure against herself she trusted^ reasoning
differently from Mrs. Norris^ would now be done away. She
should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully acquitted
her conduct in refusing him ; but this^ though most material
to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her
uncle's displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her
justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him?
His stay must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund
gave his father no present pain. It was of a much less poign-
ant nature than what the others excited; but Sir Thomas
was considering his happiness as very deeply involved in the
■offence of his sister and friend ; cut off by it, as he must be,
from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in
everything but this despicable brother, would have been so
eligible a connection. He was aware of what Edmund must
be suffering on his own behalf, in addition to all the rest,
when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured his
feelings ; and, having reason to think that one interview with
Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived
only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account
as on others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in
taking Fanny home to her aunt, with a view to his relief and
benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in the secret of
her uncle's feelings. Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss
Crawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversa-
tion with his son, he would not have wished her to belong to
him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford
did not admit of a doubt with Fanny : and yet, till she knew
that he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient.
She thought he did, but she wanted to be assured of it. If
he would now speak to her with the unreserve which had
sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most
consoling; but thai she found was not to be. She seldom
saw him: never alone. He probably avoided being alone

mA3<^FIELD PA%K 379

with her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment
submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this
family affliction^ but that it was too keenly felt to be a sub-
ject of the slightest communication. This must be his state.
He yielded^ but it was with agonies which did not admit of
speech. Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name
passed his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such
confidential intercourse as had been.

It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it
was not till Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to
her on the subject. Sitting with her on Sunday evening — a
wet Sunday evening — the very time of all others when, if a
friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and everything
told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after
hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings,
hardly to be traced as to what came first, and the usual
declaration that if she would listen to him for a few minutes,
he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness
in the same way again; she need not fear a repetition; it
would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered upon the
luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first
interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he
was quite convinced.

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern,
what pain and what delight, how the agitation of his voice
was watched, and how carefully her own eyes were fixed on
any object but himself, may be imagined. The opening was
alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited
to see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to
beg him to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be
the last, last interview of friendship, and investing her with
all the feelings of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's
sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a
state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few
moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the
last. But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over.
She had met him, he said, with a serious — certainly a serious
— even an agitated air; but before he had been able to speak
one intelligible sentence, she had introduced the subject in a
manner which he owned had shocked him. * I heard you

38o ^A:KSFIELD PAliK

were in town/ said she; ' I wanted to see you. Let us talk
over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two
relations? ' I could not answer, but I believe my looks
spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel!
With a graver look and voice she then added, * I do not mean
to defend Henry at your sister's expense.' So she began, but
how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be repeated
to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dv/ell
upon them if I could. Their substance was great anger at
the folly of each. She reprobated her brother's folly in being
drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do
what must lose him the woman he adored ; but still more the
folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunging
into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by
a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess

what I must have felt. To hear the woman whom . No

harsher name than folly given ! So voluntarily, so freely, so
coolly to canvass it ! No reluctance, no horror, no feminine,
shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the world
does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom
nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt! "

After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate
calmness. " I will tell you everything, and then have done
for ever. She saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped
only by exposure. The want of common discretion, of
caution; his going down to Richmond for the whole time of
her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power
of a servant ; it was the detection, in short — oh, Fanny ! it
was the detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It
was the imprudence which had brought things to extremity,
and obliged her brother to give up every dearer plan in order
to fly with her."

He stopt. And what," said Fanny (believing herself
required to speak), "what could you say? "

Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man
stunned. She went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she
began to talk of you, regretting, as well she might, the loss

of such a . There she spoke very rationally. But she

has always done justice to you. * He has thrown away,' said
she, * such a woman as he will never see again. She would
have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever/

34AD<^FIELD PA%K 381

My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure
than pain by this retrospect of what might have been — but
what never can be now. You do not wish me to be silent?
If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I have done."
No look or word was given.

" Thank God," said he. " We were all disposed to wonder,
but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of Provi-
dence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer.
She spoke of you with high praise and warm affection; yet,
even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil ; for in the midst of
it she could exclaim, ' Why would not she have him ? It is
all her fault. Simple girl ! I shall never forgive her. Had
she accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on
the point of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy
and too busy to want any other object. He would have
taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.
It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in
yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' Could you
have believed it possible.^ But the charm is broken. My
eyes are opened."

" Cruel ! " said Fanny, " quite cruel. At such a moment
to give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you !
Absolute cruelty."

" Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is
not a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaning to
wound my feelings. The evil lies yet deeper; in her total
ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being such feelings; in
a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to treat
the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had
been used to hear others speak, as she imagined every
body else would speak. Hers are not faults of temper.
She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any
one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think

that for me, for my feelings, she would . Hers are

faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a cor-
rupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me, since it
leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however. Gladly
would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather
than have to think of her as I do. I told her so."

" Did you?"

" Yes; when I left her I told her so."

382 3^J3^FIELD PAVjC

How long were you together? "

Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say
that what remained now to be done was to bring about a
marriage between them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a
steadier voice than I can.'' He was obliged to pause more
than once as he continued. " ' We must persuade Henry to
marry her,' said she; ' and what with honour, and the cer-
tainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do
not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think
that even he could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp,
and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty.
My influence, which is not small, shall all go that way ; and
when once married, and properly supported by her own
family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover
her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles,
we know, she would never be admitted, but with good dinners,
and large parties, there will always be those who will be glad
of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more
liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What
I advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure
his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things
take their course. If by any officious exertions of his,
she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be
much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let
Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it may
all end well; but if he gets his daughter away, it will be
destroying the chief hold.' "

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that
Fanny, watching him with silent, but most tender concern,
was almost sorry that the subject had been entered on at all.
It was long before he could speak again. At last, " Now,
Fanny," said he, " I shall soon have done. I have told you
the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,
I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such
a state of mind into that house as I had done, that anything
could occur to make me suffer more, but that she had been
inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence. That
though I had, in the course of our acquaintance, been often
sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points, too, of
some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive

mA:HS FIELD PA%K 383

the difference could be such as she had now proved it. That
the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime com-
mitted by her brother and my sister (with whom lay the-
greater seduction I pretended not to say), but the m.anner in
which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every reproach
but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they
were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and
impudence in wrong; and last of all, and above all, recom-
mending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence,^
in the continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage
which, thinking as I now thought of her brother, should rather
be prevented than sought; all this together most grievously
convinced me that I had never understood her before, and
that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of
my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been toa
apt to dwell on for many months past. That, perhaps, it
was best for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a friend-
ship, feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn
from me now. And yet, that I must, and would confess,
that, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to*
me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain
of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of
tenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of
it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or
methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was as-
tonished, exceedingly astonished — more than astonished. I
saw her change countenance. She turned extremely red. I
imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great, though
short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths, half a sense
of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have
laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered,
' A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your
last sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody
at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you
next, it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society
of Methodists, or as a missionary into foreign parts.' She
tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so careless as she
wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my heart
I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon
learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable
\ knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge of our*

i

384 ^MJOiSFIELD PJ'liK

selves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and imme-
diately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when
I heard the door open behind me. * Mr. Bertram/ said she.
I looked back. ' Mr. Bertram/ said she, with a smile; but
it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, 1
a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue |
me; at least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the
impulse of the moment to resist, and still walked on. I have
since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did not go
back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of
our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been !
How have I been deceived ! Equally in brother and sister
deceived ! I thank you for your patience, Fanny. This has
been the greatest relief, and now we will have done."

And such was Fanny's dependance on his words, that for
five minutes she thought they had done. Then, however, it
all came on again, or something very like it, and nothing less
than Lady Bertram's rousing thoroughly up, could really
close such a conversation. Till that happened, they con-
tinued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had
attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and
how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into good
hands earlier. Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt
more than justified in adding to his knowledge of her real
character, by some hint of what share his brother's state of
health might be supposed to have in her wish for a complete
reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation.
Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast
deal pleasanter to have had her more disinterested in her
attachment; but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long
against reason. He submitted to believe that Tom's illness
had influenced her, only reserving for himself this consoling
thought, that considering the many counteractions of oppos-
ing habits, she had certainly been more attached to him than
€ould have been expected, and for his sake been more near
doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they
were also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect,
the indelible impression, which such a disappointment must
make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate some-
what of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he
never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever

^IAD<^FIELD PA%K 385

meeting with any other woman who could, it was too im-
possible to be named but with indignation. Fanny's
friendship was all that he had to cling to.

CH^PTE%^XLVIU

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such
odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore every-
body, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort,
and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfac-
tion of knowing, must have been happy in spite of every-
thing. She must have been a happy creature in spite of all
that she felt, or thought she felt, for the distress of those
around her. She had sources of delight that must force their
way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful,
she was beloved ; she was safe from Mr. Crawford ; and when
Sir Thomas came back she had every proof that could be
given in his then melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect
approbation and increased regard; and happy as all this
must make her, she would still have been happy without any
of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself.
He was suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving
over what was, and wishing for what could never be. She
knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with a sorrow so
founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in
harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few
who might not have been glad to exchange their greatest
gaiety for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of
errors in his own conduct as a parent, was the longest to
suffer. He felt that he ought not to have allowed the
marriage ; that his daughter's sentiments had been sufficiently
known to him to render him culpable in authorising it; that
in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and
been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom.
These were reflections that required some time to soften;
but time will do almost everything ; and though little comfort

N

386 {MAO^FIELD PAT{K

arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for the misery she had
occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than he had
supposed in his other children. Julia's match became a less
desperate business than he had considered it at first. She
was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates,
desirous of being really received into the family, was disposed
to look up to him and be guided. He was not very solid;
but there was a hope of his becoming less trifling, of his being
at least tolerably domestic and quiet ; and at any rate, there
was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts
much less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and
treated as the friend best worth attending to. There was
comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his health,
without regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his
previous habits. He was the better for ever for his illness.
He had suffered, and he had learned to think : two advantages
that he had never known before : and the self-reproach arising
from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he
felt himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his
unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind which,
at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense or good
companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became
what he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet,
and not living merely for himself.

Here was comfort indeed ! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas
could place dependence on such sources of good, Edmund
was contributing to his father's ease by improvement in the
only point in which he had given him pain before: im-
provement in his spirits. After wandering about and sitting
under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so
well talked his mind into submission, as to be very tolerably
cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually
brought their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense
of what was lost, and in part reconciling him to himself;
though the anguish arising from the conviction of his own
errors in the education of his daughters was never to be
entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the
character of any young people must be the totally opposite
treatment which Maria and Julia had been always experienc-

MJO^FIELD PA%K 387

ing at home, where the excessive indulgence and flattery of
their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own
severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to
counteract what was wrong in Mrs. Norris, by its reverse in
himself; clearly saw that he had but increased the evil, by
teaching them to repress their spirits in his presence [so] ^ as
to make their real disposition unknown to him, and sending
them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able
to attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the
excess of her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it
was, he gradually grew to feel that it had not been the most
direful mistake in his plan of education. Something must
have been wanting within, or time would have worn away
much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active
principle, had been wanting; that they had never been
properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers, by
that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They had been
instructed theoretically in their rehgion, but never required
to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for
elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of
their youth, could have had no useful influence that way,
no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to be good,
but his cares had been directed to the understanding and
manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity of self-
denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any
lips that could profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could
scarcely comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly
did he feel, that with all the cost and care of an anxious and
expensive education, he had brought up his daughters
without their understanding their first duties, or his being
acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth,
especially, were made known to him only in their sad result.
She was not to be prevailed on to leave Mr. Crawford. She
hoped to marry him, and they continued together till she
was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain, and
till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the
conviction rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for
^ Omitted in the early editions.

N2

388 mAS^FIELD PA^

him so like hatred, as to make them for a while each other^s
punishment, and then induce a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all
his happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better consola-
tion in leaving him, than that she had divided them. What
can exceed the misery of such a mind in such a situation ?

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce;
and so ended a marriage contracted under such circumstances
as to make any better end the effect of good luck not to be
reckoned on. She had despised him, and loved another;
and he had been very much aware that it was so. The
indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish
passion, can excite little pity. His punishment followed his
conduct, as did a deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his
wife. He was released from the engagement to be mortified
and unhappy, till some other pretty girl could attract him
into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a second,
and it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state:
if duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good
luck; while she must withdraw with infinitely stronger
feelings to a retirement and reproach which could allow no
second spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most
melancholy and momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris,
whose attachment seemed to augment with the demerits of
her niece, would have had her received at home, and counten-
anced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and
Mrs. Norris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater,
from considering her residence there as the motive. She
persisted in placing his scruples to her account, though Sir
Thomas very solemnly assured her that, had there been no
young woman in question, had there been no young person
of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the society
or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never
have offered so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to
expect it to notice her. As a daughter, he hoped a penitent
one, she should be protected by him, and secured in every
comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do right,
which their relative situations admitted; but farther than
that he could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character,
and he would not, by a vain attempt to restore what never

mJD<SFIELD PAliK 389

could be restored^ by affording his sanction to vice^ or in
seeking to lessen its disgrace, be anywise accessory to intro-
ducing such misery in another man's family, as he had known
himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield, and
devote herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establish-
ment being formed for them in another country, remote and
private, where, shut up together with little society, on one side
no affection, on the other no judgment, it may be reasonably
supposed that their tempers became their mutual punish-
ment. Mrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great
supplementary comfort of Sir Thomas's life. His opinion
of her had been sinking from the day of his return from
Antigua: in every transaction together from that period,
in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had
been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing
him that either time had done her much disservice, or that
he had considerably over-rated her sense, and wonderfully
borne with her manners before. He had felt her as an hourly
evil, which was so much the worse, as there seemed no chance
of its ceasing but with life ; she seemed a part of himself that
must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her, therefore, was
so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances
behind her, there might have been danger of his learning
almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never
been able to attach even those she loved best, and since
Mrs. Rushworth's elopement, her temper had been in a state
of such irritation as to make her everywhere tormenting.
Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not even when she
was gone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some
measure, to a favourable difference of disposition and cir-
cumstance, but in a greater to her having been less the
darling of that very aunt, less flattered and less spoilt. Her
beauty and acquirements had held but a second place. She
had been always used to think herself a little inferior to
Maria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two;
her feelings, though quick, were more controulable, and
education had not given her so very hurtful a degree of
^elf-consequence.

390 mA:KSFIELD PJ^iK

She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry
Crawford. After the first bitterness of the conviction of
being sHghted was over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair
way of not thinking of him again; and when the acquaint-
ance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth's house
became Crawford's object, she had had the merit of with-
drawing herself from it, and of chusing that time to pay a
visit to her other friends, in order to secure herself from
being again too much attracted. This had been her motive
in going to her cousin's. Mr. Yates's convenience had had
nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions
some time, but with very little idea of ever accepting him;
and had not her sister's conduct burst forth as it did, and
her increased dread of her father and of home, on that event,
imagining its certain consequence to herself would be greater
severity and restraint, made her hastily resolve on avoiding
such immediate horrors at all risks, it is probable that Mr.
Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped
with any worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had
appeared to her the only thing to be done. Maria's guilt
had induced Julia's folly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad
domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded
vanity a little too long. Once it had, by an opening unde-
signed and unmerited, led him into the way of happiness.
Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one amiable
woman's affections, could he have found sufficient exultation
in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the
esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have
been every probability of success and felicity for him. His
affection had already done something. Her influence over
him had already given him some influence over her. Would
he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would
have been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken
place, which would have given him the assistance of her con-
science in subduing her first inclination, and brought them
very often together. Would he have persevered, and up-
rightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward very
voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from
Edmund's marrying Mary. Had he done as he intended,
and as he knew he ought, by going down to Everingham

mA3<^FIELD PA%K 391

after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been decid-
ing his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for
Mrs. Fraser's party; his staying was made of flattering con-
sequence, and he was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curi-
osity and vanity were both engaged, and the temptation of
immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to
make any sacrifice to right : he resolved to defer his Norfolk
journey, resolved that writing should answer the purpose of
it, or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw
Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her with a coldness which
ought to have been repulsive, and have established apparent
indifference between them for ever ; but he was mortified, he
could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles
had been so wholly at his command ; he must exert himself
to subdue so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on
Fanny ^s account; he must get the better of it, and make Mrs.
Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her treatment of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perse-
verance had soon re-established the sort of familiar inter-
course, of gallantry, of flirtation, which bounded his views;
but in triumphing over the discretion which, though begin-
ning in anger, might have saved them both, he had put him-
self in the power of feelings on her side more strong than he
had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing
attentions avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his
own vanity, with as little excuse of love as possible, and
without the smallest inconstancy of mind towards her cousin.
To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of what
was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have
been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth' s credit than he felt
it for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would
have been glad to see Mrs. Rushworth no more. All that
followed was the result of her imprudence, and he went off
with her at last, because he could not help it, regretting
Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more
when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few
months had taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a
yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the purity
of her mind, and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace,
should in a just measure attend his shai'e of the offence is,

392 MAdiSFIELD PA'RK

we know^ not one of the barriers which society gives to virtue.
In this world the penalty is less equal than could be wished ;
but without presuming to look forward to a juster appoint-
ment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of sense, like
Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small portion
of vexation and regret; vexation that must rise sometimes
to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so
requited hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his
best, most estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost
the woman whom he had rationally as w^ell as passionately
loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two
families, the continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in
such close neighbourhood would have been most distress-
ing; but the absence of the latter, for some months purposely
lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or at
least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant,
through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form
hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which, as afford-
ing an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence
in London, and an increase of income to answer the expenses
of the change, was highly acceptable to those who went and
those who staid.

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have
gone with some regret from the scenes and people she had
been used to ; but the same happiness of disposition must in
any place, and any society, secure her a great deal to enjoy,
and she had again a home to offer Mary ; and Mary had had
enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love,
and disappointment in the course of the last half year, to be
in need of the true kindness of her sister's heart, and the
rational tranquillity of her ways. They lived together ; and
when Dr. Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by
three great institutionary dinners in one week, they still
lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against
ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long
in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-
apparents, who were at the command of her beauty, and her
£20,000, any one who could satisfy the better taste she had
acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners could
authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there

MAXSFIELD PA%K 393

learned to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out
of her head.

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect.
He had not to wait and wish with vacant affections for an
object worthy to succeed her in them. Scarcely had he done
regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to Fanny how im-
possible it was that he should ever meet with such another
woman, before it began to strike him whether a very different
kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal
better; whether Fanny herself were not growing as dear, as
important to him in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary
Crawford had ever been ; and whether it might not be a pos-
sible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm
and sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for
wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every
one may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure
of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging
attachments, must vary much as to time in different people.
I only intreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time
when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a
week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford,
and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself
could desire.

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been,
a regard founded on the most endearing claims of innocence
and helplessness, and completed by every recommendation
of growing worth, what could be more natural than the
change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been
doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great
a degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on
his kindness, an object to him of such close and peculiar
interest, dearer by all his own importance with her than any
one else at Mansfield, what was there now to add, but that
• he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark
ones. And being always with her, and always talking confi-
\ dentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state
I which a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes
I could not be very long in obtaining the pre-eminence.
' Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this
^ road to happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence

mADiSFIELD PA%K

to stop him or make his progress slow; no doubts of her
deserving, no fears of opposition of taste, no need of drawing
new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity of temper. Her
mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no half con-
cealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance [on]
future improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatua-
tion, he had acknowledged Fanny's mental superiority.
What must be his sense of it now, therefore.^ She was of
course only too good for him ; but as nobody minds having
what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in
the pursuit of the blessing, and it v/as not possible that
encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid,
anxious, doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such
tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest
hope of success, though it remained for a later period to tell
him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His happi-
ness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of
such a heart, must have been great enough to warrant any
strength of language in which he could clothe it to her or to
himself; it must have been a delightful happiness. But
there was happiness elsewhere which no description can
reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young
woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which
she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties
behind, no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match
which Sir Thomas's wishes had even forestalled. Sick of
ambitious and mercenary connections, prizing more and
more the sterling good of principle and temper, and chiefly
anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained
to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine
satisfaction on the more than possibility of the two young
friends finding their mutual consolation in each other for all
that had occurred of disappointment to either; and the
joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high
sense of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of
Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a contrast with his
early opinion on the subject when the poor little girl's coming
had been first agitated, as time is for ever producing between
the plans and decisions of mortals, for their own instruction,
and their neighbours' entertainment.

ma:ksfield pa%k 395

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His
charitable kindness had been rearing a prime . comfort for
himself. His liberality had a rich repayment, and the
general goodness of his intentions by her deserved it. He
might have made her childhood happier ; but it had been an
error of judgment only which had given him the appearance
of harshness, and deprived him of her early love; and now,,
on really knowing each other, their mutual attachment
became very strong. After settling her at Thornton Lacey
with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of
almost every day was to see her there, or to get her away
from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she
could not be parted with willingly by her. No happiness of
son or niece could make her wish the marriage. But it was
possible to part with her, because Susan remained to supply
her place. Susan became the stationary niece, delighted to
be so ; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of mind,
and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by
sweetness of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan
could never be spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as
an auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was established
at Mansfield, with every appearance of equal permanency.
Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves made every-
thing easy to her there. With quickness in understanding the
tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity
to restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and
useful to all; and after Fanny's removal succeeded so
naturally to her influence over the hourly comfort of her aunt
as gradually to become, perhaps, the most beloved of the
two. In her usefulness, in Fanny's excellence, in William's
continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general
well-doing and success of the other members of the family,
all assisting to advance each other, and doing credit to his
countenance and aid. Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for ever
'repeated reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all,
and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship and
^discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle
'and endure.

j With so much true merit and true love, and no want of
: fortune and friends, the happiness of the m.arried cousins

396

OdA^iSFIELD PA%K

must appear as secure as earthly happiness can be. Equally
formed for domestic life^ and attached to country pleasures^
their home was the home of affection and comfort; and to
complete the picture of good^ the acquisition of Mansfield
living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had
been married long enough to begin to want an increase of
income, and feel their distance from the paternal abode an
inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield ; and the Parson-
age there, which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny
had never been able to approach but with some painful
sensation of restraint or alarm, soon grew as dear to her heart,
and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as everything else
within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long
been.

Finis

THi: TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCH WORTH

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